


sweetest little part of destiny

by singsongsung, sylwrites



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Pining, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-03-18 00:24:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 70,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13670424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singsongsung/pseuds/singsongsung, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylwrites/pseuds/sylwrites
Summary: “You’ve known me forever, Jug," Betty says. "I’ll believe you if you tell me. Is this stupid?”The hopeful, wide look in her eyes is enough to make Jughead’s heart break. He sighs and turns his palm upward to lay flush against hers. “Betts, nothing that makes you happy will ever be stupid."-In which Betty makes plans, and Jughead is nothing if not completely supportive. AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We heard there was a trope we hadn't fully exploited yet, so here we are.

On a sunny day in April, the very first day of the year that feels more like spring than winter, Betty surveys the living room with her hands on her hips, a few wisps of hair escaping from her ponytail. She’s aware that Jughead’s looking at her with a certain degree of amusement; he’s been sneaking glances over at her for nearly half an hour now from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table, his laptop open in front of him.

“Yes?” she asks, turning toward him and lifting one of her eyebrows.

He raises his eyebrows back at her, a small smile playing over his lips. “I think we’re good, Betts.”

She doesn’t know if the childhood nickname is an attempt to mollify her; she doesn’t think so, but she’s still navigating the contours of her new, adult relationship with Jughead, the one where they are roommates and they’re re-learning each other after several years of friendly-but-distant interaction. The last time he called her _Betts_ was a couple weeks ago, when he’d come home from a Saturday trip to his favourite used bookstore to find her sitting on the couch, the curtains drawn and a half-empty bottle of wine sitting on the coffee table, her eyes a little glassy as she stared at the _Four Weddings_ marathon that was playing on TV. He’d said, simply, “Hey, Betts,” and rather than trying to cheer her up, had gotten right down into her misery with her, slouching into the couch cushions at her side, taking a swig of wine directly from the bottle, and mocking wedding decor alongside her for the next two hours.

“I just want to make sure there’s nothing small lying around that he can find,” she says.

Jughead closes his laptop. “He’s four months old. He can’t even crawl yet. Besides,” he adds, standing up, “you’ve cleaned this apartment so thoroughly that I don’t think the kid even has a chance of encountering a speck of dust.”

She ducks her head a little, her nose wrinkling almost apologetically. It’s true that the apartment looks quite different now than it had when she first moved in: in an effort to distract herself, she cleaned every inch of the place, included the baseboards and the very back corners of each cupboard, and on top of that, she’d made the space look a bit less like a bachelor pad with the addition of a few throw pillows, a rug, a full set of drinking glasses that actually match, and the replacement of the living room blinds with curtains.

“Thank you again,” she says softly. “For letting me move in.”

“You’ve got to stop thanking me, Betty. I like having you here, you know that. You’ve totally overhauled my diet, and probably my arteries, by extension.” He tilts his head slightly in order to meet her eyes. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”

“You’re just saying that because you know that when I go, the wafflemaker goes,” she says lightly.

“You’re onto me, Cooper,” he agrees easily. “Do you need help with anything?”

Betty shakes her head, looking at the fluffed throw pillows, the freshly vacuumed rug, the bottle of wine sitting on kitchen counter. “No, everything’s done.”

“Even the food?”

“Cheesecake’s chilling in the fridge,” she reports. “And the eggplant parmesan’s prepped, I’m just waiting for the oven to finish preheating.”

Jughead nods, and she follows his gaze over to one of the end tables by the sofa, upon which two gift bags sit, a large one filled with onesies and bottles and toys and other infant-related paraphenalia, and a smaller one that contains two gift cards, one from a spa, and one from a bakery-slash-coffee-shop. “You’re a force of nature,” he says, something like marvel in his voice, and Betty would like to take the compliment and appreciate his admiration, because she has, after all, been preparing for their early-dinner guests since mid-morning, but she can’t, because she doesn’t see what he sees when he looks at the sparkling clean kitchen and tidied living room.

She doesn’t see the work of a force of nature. She sees the work of a wife.

“I’m going to grab a shower,” Jughead says, touching her shoulder lightly as he walks past her, and she nods absently. Once he’s disappeared down the hallway and into the washroom, she perches carefully on one of the couch cushions and looks around, noting all the signs of her mother’s influence.

Betty is, in many ways, the person her mother raised her to be. She is polite, and for the most part, even-tempered; she is sometimes fastidious to the point of anxiety. She is a double-capital-G Good Girl, and she was primed to live a life very similar to her mother’s: marrying a man who would care for her, would provide for her, would be a good father to their children, and Betty would work, but her career would never be as important as kneading dough the night before a bake sale, and she would raise a daughter, or daughters, much like herself, daughters who were strong in some ways, tough in others, but whose perception of adulthood involved a great deal of ironing and a snappish tone demanding perfection every year on the morning of the family pictures.

She loved Trev - or at least, she thought she had. He’d always been good to her. But it had hit her like a ton of bricks, on Christmas morning, as she handed him a full mug of coffee just as her mother pressed a fresh cup into her father’s hands, that she wasn’t living a life she necessarily wanted, but a life that had been prescribed for her, and modelled for her by her parents. She was set to marry her high school sweetheart without ever having considered if the idea, or the desire, was even her own.

It hurt like hell when, three days later, she’d tearfully returned her engagement ring to him. It hurt to see his devastated expression, it hurt to be alone, it hurt to realize that all of the plans she’d once had were evaporating, and that she was the one who’d turned them to mist. It hurt, but she didn’t regret it, and now, after spending a couple weeks sleeping at her college roommate’s place and finally settling into her old friend Jughead’s spare bedroom, she’s doing her very best - on the days it doesn’t feel like too _much_ , so much that she could dig her nails into her palms just to feel some relief - to figure out which parts of the old plan for her life, if any, she actually wants.

In the kitchen, the oven beeps quietly, alerting her to the fact that it’s done preheating and jarring her from her introspection. She gets to her feet and heads over to the counter, where the eggplant parm is waiting to be baked.

.  
.  
.  
.  
.

 

A few minutes after four, when Betty and Jughead are sitting at either end of the couch and he’s telling her about his latest plot struggle with a sigh behind each of his words, there’s a crisp, sharp knock on the door, the kind of knock that demands an answer.

Betty hops to her feet but tells Jughead, firmly, “To be continued.” She loves to hear about his novel - it makes her feel proud, in a way, to see that the bright-minded little boy she once knew has grown into a man who’s putting his ideas on paper.

She opens the door and grins at Veronica, who’d come into her life as a fallen-from-grace rich girl that the student life office had just happened to select as Betty's first-year roommate at Yale, had quickly become Betty’s very closest friend, and who is now sporting eye bags that luxury-brand concealer can’t _quite_ fully disguise and a baby bjorn strapped to her chest, from which a tiny blue hat on a tiny head peeks out.

“Hi,” Betty says warmly, her eyes darting from Veronica’s face to the baby and back again with something like amazement before she directs her smile to the left, where Veronica’s wife, Cheryl, is standing with a Chanel tote hooked over one shoulder, the edge of a baby blanket peeking out.

“Hello,” Cheryl says, eyeing a single place on the hallway wall where the paint has chipped as if it’s evidence that the building is far too run down for her child to spend any time in it.

“Come on in,” Betty says, stepping aside so that they can move through the doorway. Behind her, she hears Jughead say hello.

“Hi, Jughead,” Veronica says as she steps out of her heels - they’re lower than usual, just a couple inches. “How are you?” she asks, in the tone of someone who’d actually like to know. Despite how different they are on the surface, she’s never actively disliked Jughead, having enjoyed a bit of verbal sparring with him in the past and discovering that he was an asset to have on her team during Old Hollywood trivia night, but since he offered Betty residence in his spare room, he seems to have received the official Veronica Lodge stamp of approval.

“Not as tired as you, I’m sure,” he says wryly, a hint of discomfort evident in the way his hands are shoved in his pockets, but his lips are curled in a fairly easy smile.

Betty peers into the baby bjorn and finds a set of dark, sleepy eyes blinking back at her. “Hi,” she whispers.

“That’s your Auntie Betty,” Veronica tells the baby, taking off his hat and smoothing a hand tenderly over his wisps of hair.

“Hi,” Betty coos to him again. “Hi, Montgomery.”

Cheryl, who still hasn’t removed her shoes, frowns as she examines the apartment. “Do you have mould?” she asks.

“Cher,” Veronica says, sliding her wife a look.

She widens her eyes innocently in response. “He’s susceptible to illness, V, and we’re in _Brooklyn_.”

“Betty’s bleached basically the whole apartment since she moved in,” Jughead says. “No illnesses here.”

Cheryl flicks her eyes up and down his body; unlike Veronica, she still doesn’t quite like Jughead. There's complicated history between their families, Betty knows, so her coldness toward Jughead isn't exactly unexpected. But after a few seconds of thought, Cheryl exhales through her nose, steps out of her own heels, and shoves her coat unceremoniously into Jughead arms, a series of actions that serve as a concession.

“Guess I’ll hang this up,” Jughead mumbles, mostly to himself, and Betty gives him a little apologetic smile, mouthing _thank you_ as she leads Veronica over to the sofa, and Jughead gives her a small shrug and a half-hearted roll of his eyes which seem to say _don’t worry about it._

Once she’s seated, Veronica unstraps Montgomery from his carrier, murmuring, “I know, I know,” when he makes soft, whining sounds. She puts a kiss to his small, chubby cheek and asks Betty, “Want to hold him?”

Betty nods immediately, reaching out. Veronica settles the baby into the cradle of her arms and he peers up at her with his face slightly crumpled, like he’s confused by the sight of her. “Hello, little guy,” she says, rocking him gently. “I’m so happy to meet you.”

He gurgles and reaches up toward her, his tiny fingers grasping at the collar of her shirt. She touches his hand with her own index finger and there’s a sudden tug in her a gut, the feeling of a lump in her throat. He is so very small, and so very perfect, and he is Veronica’s. Her best friend has a baby.

“You’re moms,” she says very softly to Veronica and Cheryl, not taking her eyes off Montgomery. “That’s crazy.”

“And to a boy,” Cheryl says. When Betty glances up, she sees that all disapproval has melted from Cheryl’s face, and has been replaced by pure fondness as she leans into Veronica’s side, peering across her to look at the baby. “Who even knows what to do with a boy?”

Betty smiles up at her, imagining that Cheryl and Veronica were prepared for tiny tutus and strands of pearls and hair braiding. “You’ll figure it out,” she says. “I don’t think he’ll grow up with you two without gaining a solid appreciation for Barneys.”

“Good taste does seem to be in cards, doesn’t it,” Cheryl agrees proudly.

“One might even say it’s inescapable,” Jughead says, a gentle jibe that is softened by the fact that he’s holding glasses of wine out to Cheryl and Veronica. Cheryl narrows her eyes only slightly as she accepts a glass.

Veronica sips her wine and sighs happily. “The perks of not breastfeeding.”

“The perks of adult company,” Cheryl adds, crossing her ankles primly. She glances at Betty, and then at Jughead. “Thank you for having us. We’ve spent a lot of time talking about diapers and bottles over the past couple weeks.”

“Of course,” Betty says. “You’re welcome anytime. And I’m offering myself up as a babysitter, too. This guy can visit whenever he wants.” She looks down into Montgomery’s face, at his rosebud lips and his drooping eyelids, and her throat gets tight again, only for a moment, but it’s a heavy moment, filled with a profound longing she’s only allowed herself to think about, up until this moment, when she's well and truly alone.

“Won’t that disrupt Jughead’s _process_?” Cheryl asks, with just the right amount of disdain, matching the tone of his earlier comment to her.

“Nothing like the shrieks of an infant to summon the muses,” he says with a little shrug, and then adds more seriously, “There’s a solid age gap between me and my little sister. I don’t mind having a baby around.”

Betty turns to the armchair Jughead is sitting in then, a thought suddenly occuring to her. “Do you want to hold him?” she asks, nodding toward Montgomery.

His eyes dart briefly toward Veronica and Cheryl, but when neither of them immediately protests or shrieks in horror at the idea of a man Cheryl referred to as a _hobo_ for most of high school holding their child, he nods and says, “Yeah. Sure.”

Betty transfers the baby into Jughead’s arms and watches as he leans back in his chair, studying Montgomery with warmth in his eyes.

“Hey there, kid,” he says quietly, and Montgomery’s little fingers struggle to find purchase on one of the buttons on Jughead’s flannel shirt.

“That’s a choking hazard,” Veronica says, sitting up abruptly. “Don’t let him pull it off.”

Jughead nods calmly and takes Montgomery’s hand in his own. When the baby whines at having the object of his interest denied to him, Jughead says, simply, “Sorry, mom’s orders,” and lifts Montgomery to his shoulder with ease, where the baby stops fussing and presses his little face into soft flannel fabric instead.

“Would you look at that,” Cheryl murmurs. “He likes you.”

Jughead’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Like you said, Cheryl. Good taste.”

She rolls her eyes, and Betty meets Veronica’s gaze. They smile at each other, pleased that their roommate and wife, respectively, are actually showing signs of getting along.

“Are you hungry?” Betty asks. “The food’s ready, just keeping warm in the oven.”

Veronica huffs, feigning frustration. “I _knew_ we should’ve begged her to keep living with us,” she says to Cheryl. “Now Jughead is reaping all the rewards.”

“And Betty is getting eight hours of sleep a night, and loving it,” Betty says teasingly as she gets up. “I’ll get things plated.”

“I’ll help you,” Veronica offers, getting to her feet, too, and following Betty into the kitchen.

Oven mitts on, Betty takes the dish of eggplant parmesan out and sets it on the stovetop before she moves to the cupboard to take out four plates. “There’s more wine if you want it,” she tells Veronica.

“Thanks,” she replies, leaning one hip against the counter. “But I’ll probably stick to one glass, since I’m responsible for someone other than myself now.”

Betty slips the oven mitts back into a drawer and just looks at Veronica, allowing herself a minute to marvel at the fact that, after a lengthy and at times heartbreaking adoption process, Veronica is now someone’s mother. “I’m really happy for you, V,” she says earnestly.

“Thanks, Betty.” Veronica smiles, almost to herself. “I’m pretty happy for me, too.”

Betty smiles, too, and turns back to the stove to start serving things up. The ache in her stomach has resurfaced, but she ignores it studiously and tells herself a lie she doesn’t quite believe: that she’ll feel better after she’s eaten.

 

* * *

 

Although Jughead’s relationships with baby Montgomery Blossom-Lodge’s mothers have not exactly been what he would characterize as smooth (certainly in Cheryl’s case, though even Veronica and he have had their share of disruptive moments), he has to admit that they’ve adopted one heck of a cute baby.

Baby Monty - as Jughead has decided he’ll call him, specifically because he knows Cheryl won’t like it - has dark eyes, a head of fuzzy dark hair, and cute, chubby cheeks that remind him distinctly of Jellybean as an infant. He’s very grabby at first, particularly with Jughead’s shirt, but he settles down just before dinner and snuggles comfortably into Jughead’s shoulder. He holds Monty while Veronica and Cheryl eat, figuring both that they could use a break and that it can’t hurt to build up some goodwill, given that Veronica is Betty’s best friend and they’ll probably be around a lot now that she’s living with him.

If there’s one thing that these years have taught him, it’s that there’s not much he wouldn’t do for Betty.

So when she’d called him to let him know that she’d broken up with Trev and was sleeping on Veronica’s couch, Jughead immediately invited her to move in with him. He’s fairly organized, his place is moderately clean, and coincidentally, his roommate had moved out a couple of months before. He’d had a few people lined up to interview for Reggie’s room - Jughead is the one on the lease, and despite the rapid depletion of his savings as a result of living alone in a two-bedroom apartment, he’s still not prepared to live with just anybody - but from the moment he’d learned that Betty needed a place, that room was hers.

It’s the least he can do; he’s known her since they were five, and in that time she’s been one of only a small handful of people who were nice to him - at times, the only one. She never judged him for his broken family or his shabby trailer or his ill-fitting clothes, and she always stuck up for him whenever any of the jocks (including, inexplicably, Archie’s _friends)_ would bully him.

Betty is just _good,_ plain and simple: a girl with a heart as beautiful as she is. She’s been that way for all the years that he’s known her, which incidentally is pretty much also how long he’s been in love with her.

On the surface, Jughead knows that it probably seems pathetic: being in love with the same girl since he was a kid, watching as she dates and falls in love and gets engaged to somebody else. And yeah, the unrequited aspect of it all _is_ a little depressing, but he’s long accepted that he is not the kind of person that gets to so much as hold the hand of a girl like Betty Cooper. He can be her friend, her support, her shoulder to cry on, but he doesn’t walk off into the sunset with her. That’s not how real life works, and if Jughead is one thing, it’s a realist.

Jughead watches as Betty walks Veronica, Cheryl, and baby Montgomery to the door of their apartment. He waves goodbye to them, his mouth full of the eggplant parmesan that he didn’t eat during dinner due to baby duty, and tries not to let his eyes linger on the warm smile she has while she coos her goodbyes to Montgomery.

“Come back anytime,” Betty implores, hugging Veronica and a reluctant Cheryl in turn.

“We will,” Veronica promises. “Sorry for the dine-and-ditch; gotta get this little guy to bed before he starts losing his mind.”

As soon as they’re through the door and gone, Jughead jokes, “He must have his mother’s temperament.”

“Which one?” Betty asks, stepping back into the living room and sinking down beside him on the couch. She looks tired; if he didn’t know her as well as he does, he’d chalk it up to the rigid preparation and thorough cleaning of the apartment that she’d performed earlier, but there’s a faint look of sadness in her eyes and for him, that’s impossible to miss.

He shrugs and shoves the last of the eggplant in his mouth. “Does it matter?”

She laughs a little. It’s worth everything. “Point taken.”

Betty leans further into the cushioned supports of the couch, her head falling backward to rest along the top. Jughead glances at her hands; they’re not curling, which is a bad habit that she’d developed years ago as an unhealthy outlet for her anxiety and stress. He’d found out about it accidentally at the beginning of high school and had been sworn to secrecy, but ever since then it’s become a bit of a habit for _him_ to check up and see if she’s still doing it.

Still, she seems off, even considering the emotional upheaval she’s gone through recently. He feels bad for her, of course; breakups are never easy, and he imagines that ending an engagement would be even more difficult. Despite his lingering feelings for Betty, Jughead had liked Trev; he was a nice guy, he treated her well, and they seemed to be good together. Trev was certainly preferable to Betty’s onetime (and ill-fated) crush on Archie, because at least with Trev there was some distance that Jughead could maintain in order to keep his sanity. The whole thing had seemed a _little_ cookie-cutter, but that was the kind of life that girls like Betty from Riverdale were destined for.

That was also the reason, as she’d told Jughead, that things had ultimately fallen apart.

Jughead admires her desire to live what Oprah would probably call _an authentic life_ \- hell, it’s what he tries to do, too. It’s why he was so keen to leave Riverdale after high school, why he wanted to go to college and make something of himself, rather than stay and fall into the seemingly preordained gang-trailer park-unhappiness spiral as his father and grandfather had done.

“You okay?” he questions, setting his plate down on the coffee table.

Betty lifts her head and nods quietly. She reaches for his empty plate. “Are you done?”

“Yeah, but I can take it-”

She’s up and in the kitchen with it before Jughead can even finish protesting. He frowns at her retreating back. _Something_ is definitely wrong, that much is obvious. He racks his brain, trying to think of what it could possibly be (and hoping to god that it was nothing _he_ did); when he comes up empty, Jughead decides to make her talk about it. Betty is prone to bottling things up - they have that in common - which he knows from personal experience is not necessarily the easiest route to go.

Jughead gets up and shuffles across the hardwood floor toward the kitchen. As he turns the corner, he sees Betty hunched over the sink, her hands in soapy water and her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. He steps closer, and now, he can hear the quiet but unmistakable sounds of crying.

He’s at her side in a second.

“Betty, hey,” he says softly, placing a hand gingerly on her shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

Betty jumps at his sudden presence. She quickly lifts her hand up to swipe at her eyes, soapy water dripping down into the sink, and gasps, “Oh! God, sorry, I was just-”

“Don’t apologize,” Jughead interrupts, reaching for a towel and handing it to her. “You want to talk about … whatever it is?”

She dries her hands, then takes a few tissues out of the box on top of the fridge and blows her nose. As she’s throwing the tissues into the garbage, she says, “I dunno. I guess I just … I see Veronica and Cheryl and what they have together, and it’s - it’s complicated.”

“Jealous?” he guesses.

“Not _exactly,_ ” she hedges, slowly walking back toward the living room. “I’m happy for them. Genuinely, I am. They’ve been through a lot, both of them, and they deserve to have what they have.” She sits down on the edge of the couch. “And especially little Monty - I know how long they waited to get a baby, and he’s so precious. I guess it just sort of reminds me of what I don’t have.”

Jughead sinks down beside her, reaches out and rubs his thumb over her wrist. “Not everything has to happen for everyone at the same time,” he says gently. “Or even at all. Lots of people don’t get married or have kids and they’re just as happy as people who do.”

“But those people generally don’t _want_ kids,” Betty says, her voice quieting. “And the thing is, I almost had all of that with Trev and I _know_ I broke up with him, and I’m still glad I did, because all of that wouldn’t have been … right with him, but … I don’t really know how to explain it,” she finishes finally, making a frustrated huffing noise.

Jughead squeezes her wrist. “Betty, you can be okay with your decision about Trev _and_ be sad about what would’ve been. They’re not mutually exclusive,” he reminds her. “Besides, you’ll still have all of that! It’ll just be with someone else - somebody who makes you feel the way you always thought you would, or whatever. He’ll sweep you off your feet, and you’ll have beautiful little babies, and you’ll live happily ever after. You _will,”_ he insists, nodding slightly at her.

He wants to add, _you’re the kind of person that happens for,_ but he doesn’t.

Betty stares at her hands.

“By the way, I’m glad you’re calling him Monty,” Jughead adds, hoping to get a smile out of her. “I can’t call him Montgomery without thinking about Mr. Burns.”

It works; the smile is small, but it’s there. “He’s a cute kid.”

“He is,” Jughead agrees. “Do you think they realized that their butler’s name is literally _Smithers_ when they named him?”

Betty doesn’t answer; instead, she draws her lip between her teeth and glances away, toward the window. It’s clear that there’s something else on her mind; exactly what it is, he’s not sure.

Jughead nudges her knee with his. “Betts, talk to me.”

She turns toward him again, seems to appraise him for a moment, then blurts, “I want a baby.”

“You’ll have them,” he assures her, “you’ll-”

“Now,” Betty interrupts, her face reddening. “I want one now. That’s the … Monty. They’re so happy _with Monty._ And I want that. I want that _so bad,_ Jughead, and I know that by leaving Trev I’ve just set myself back another five years at least, if it even happens at all-”

“Hey, hey,” Jughead says, grabbing her hands. “It’ll _happen,_ Betty. I know you have this timeline in your head, but things don’t always have to happen as you planned. Wasn’t that the whole point of breaking up with Trev?”

She nods, swallowing visibly. “Yeah,” she says. “It was. And that’s why … I was thinking about … doing it.”

He stares at her blankly. “Doing what?”

“Having a baby,” Betty clarifies. “Not through adoption, because that can take _years_ \- Veronica and Cheryl waited forever for Monty, and even that was quicker than the average, and I’d be a single petitioner, so no chance. I’m talking about a sperm donor.”

Jughead’s head feels like it’s spinning. _“What?”_

“Artificial insemination.” Betty tugs her hands from his and pulls her phone out of her pocket. “I’ve done some research and it’s not _too_ expensive - I have savings that I was going to spend on the wedding and buying an apartment and all that, and … yeah.” She shows him her phone screen, where the homepage of a fertility clinic is pulled up on her browser, then worries her lip between her teeth again and looks at him nervously. “You can say it, Jug. I know it’s crazy.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not crazy, it’s just - unexpected?”

Betty nods and puts her phone away. “I haven’t told anyone yet. But I have an appointment next week to meet with the clinic to talk about things. Is that - am I totally nuts?” She grabs his hand, suddenly and with more force than he’d expect out of her, and peers at him carefully. “You’ve known me forever, Jug. I’ll believe you if you tell me. Is this stupid?”

The hopeful, wide look in her eyes is enough to make Jughead’s heart break. He sighs and turns his palm upward to lay flush against hers. “Betts, nothing that makes you happy will ever be stupid.”

The sigh that she gives at his words is heavy with relief and it’s enough to make the corner of Jughead’s mouth quirk upward. She throws her arms around him and pulls him into a tight hug; he responds instinctively, hugging her back, and his smile spreads.

(Okay, maybe he is a _little_ pathetic.)

“I knew you would be supportive, Juggie,” Betty says, pulling back and looking at him with happy, bright eyes. “You’ve always been such a good friend.”

Jughead presses his lips together briefly and then forces them back into a smile. “Anything for you, Betts,” he says.

He’s never meant anything more.

 

 

tbc.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...we got a little excited and added another chapter.
> 
> Thank you for your comments!

Later in the week, Betty meets Veronica for coffee. The school she teaches at has a half-day, and she’s opted to work from home for the afternoon - with a quick break to meet her best friend and baby Montgomery at a quiet, upscale cafe not far from where the Blossom-Lodges live. Veronica is already situated at a table, her futuristic-looking stroller parked, when Betty arrives. Montgomery is in her arms, wearing an adorable little onesie patterned with sailboats, and the sight of them makes Betty’s heart bloom and ache simultaneously.

“Look who it is,” Veronica says to the baby when Betty approaches. His response is to bury his face in her neck, and Veronica explains, apologetically, “He’s tired.”

“I hear that, Monty,” Betty says, dropping her coat and purse into the vacant armchair across from Veronica’s. “Did you also try and prepare a bunch of first-graders for the annual springtime concert today?” She touches a hand gently to the baby’s back. “Or did you just eat lots and look at all kinds of things? Because that sounds pretty exhausting, too, I’ve got to say.” She brushes a light kiss against the side of his small head and then drops a kiss against Veronica’s cheek, too. “What can I get you?”

“The largest cappuccino possible and a croissant, please,” Veronica says, and Betty heads over to the counter to order for them both.

Back at the table, she settles into her armchair and sips the americano she ordered. “So how’s it going?” she asks Veronica.

“It’s good,” Veronica says, a wide, automatic smile appearing on her lips. “I mean, I’ve forgotten what sleep is, but aside from that…” She gives her head a little shake. “I have no idea how Cher gets through her work days without a nap.”

“She must be tired,” Betty agrees sympathetically. Cheryl’s wealthy family had overlooked her constantly, always favouring her twin brother as their father’s successor when it came to running the family business (prior to Jason’s untimely death and the revelation of all the Blossom family’s dirty laundry), and she had been all too happy to step into the role as heiress to Lodge Industries, a position Veronica had never quite wanted. Even exhausted, though, Betty can imagine Cheryl walking into a room with red-soled heels clacking and her red hair flipping over her shoulder, taking control of everyone in it. “Is she liking it? Motherhood?”

Veronica nods. “She’s sweet with him,” she says warmly, and Betty understands what she means. For someone like her, sweetness is a default mode. For Cheryl, it’s rare and exceptional.

She sets down her cup of coffee and nods toward Montgomery. “May I?”

“Of course,” Veronica says, and eases the sleepy baby into Betty’s arms. He fusses a little at first, but then Veronica leans over, into his line of sight, and murmurs, “Shh…” She brushes her fingertip over his cheek, and his eyes flutter closed again, his lashes unbearably tiny against his cheeks. Betty can’t help but sigh, her heart melting at the way his body relaxes against hers.

“Cheryl could not get over how easily he took to Jughead,” Veronica says on a soft chuckle as she sits back. “Like she thought she could impart her snobbery to him just by holding him, or something.” She takes a sip from her mug and seems to study Betty for a few seconds before she adds, “But don’t worry. I’m sure Aunt Betty will be the favourite.”

Betty tears her eyes from Montgomery reluctantly to smile over at Veronica. “I’d say that I’m going to spoil him rotten, but I think you two will make quick work of that.”

“We’re pretty fond of him,” Veronica agrees, breaking off a piece of her croissant and popping it into her mouth.

Betty looks back down at the baby. He’s sound asleep now, heavy in her arms in the best possible way. “V,” she says softly. She lifts her gaze and says, in a voice that’s still soft but infused with confidence, “I’m going to have a baby.”

Veronica nearly chokes on her cappuccino, spluttering a bit and then pressing a napkin to her lips. She coughs a couple times, looking at Betty with an expression that’s nothing short of stunned. “You’re pregnant?!” she asks quietly.

“No,” Betty says quickly. “No, no. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make you think I was dropping a bombshell.”

“Well, you did,” Veronica says, pressing a hand to her chest as if she’s trying to slow a racing heart. “I didn’t think you’d been with anyone since… Trev.” She crinkles her nose up when she mentions Betty’s ex-fiancée, as though she’s not sure if it’s a taboo subject or not.

“I haven’t,” Betty says. “I’m not pregnant. But… I will be. Hopefully. I’m going to do IUI. Artificial insemination, basically.”

Veronica’s brows quirk upward, and she takes a moment to digest that; it’s been funny to observe, over the years that they’ve been friends, Veronica’s journey to learning to think before she speaks, to allow herself a moment to mull over a response instead of immediately providing a careless but well-crafted witticism. “Are you - B, I love you, and I support you no matter what, but are you _sure_?”

Betty nods. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” she confesses. “After I broke up with Trev, I spent a lot of time wondering if there’d been anything, in the future I’d had planned, that I wanted. And I realized - the thing I was saddest about losing was the fact that I’d sort of been expecting to be a mom in a couple years. I want to have a kid. I’ve always wanted to, since I was a little girl. It doesn’t feel like something that was expected of me so I _made_ myself want it, you know? It feels like something that’s totally mine, that’s really coming from me.”

“That’s good,” Veronica says, offering a soft smile. “I think this journey of self-discovery you’re on is commendable, I really do. And you know that I think you made the right choice, calling the wedding off - you were settling, even if you refuse to call it that. But you’re still young, Betty. You’re still a total catch. Why not start dating, find someone new, someone right, and have kids with a partner?”

“I have no idea what I want in a guy,” Betty sighs. “Part of me wants to go back to what’s familiar, to someone with all those characteristics Trev had that made him so safe, but I know that’s a scared choice. And part of me wonders if I need to break out of the mould I’ve been living in and date, like, a biker or something, but I can’t imagine that, not really. And god, I don’t even know _how_ to date. I was with Trev since high school.”

“You’d figure it out, sweetie,” Veronica says comfortingly.

“Maybe,” Betty says. “Or - maybe not.” It’s something she worked on with the therapist she saw biweekly after she broke things off with Trev: acknowledging that everything might not work out in an idyllic way, and being okay with that. “I don’t know how things will end up for me romantically, I _can’t_ know. But I know that I want this.”

“You sound very sure,” Veronica murmurs, her eyes intent on Betty’s face for a moment before she looks down at her slumbering son. He’s drooling a little, so she hands Betty a blanket to use to wipe the corner of his mouth.

“I am,” she says. “No matter what, I’m going to want to end up with someone who likes kids. It would probably be a good start if they liked mine.”

“Look at Miss Independent,” Veronica teases as she leans back in her chair, but there’s a hint of pride in her voice, too. “Montgomery will look forward to meeting his future best friend and/or soulmate.”

Betty laughs. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, baby boy,” she murmurs to the infant in her arms.

“So, how do you go about this? You get to choose, right? The… donor? I assume you’re going to a bank of some sort.”

“Yeah. I get to choose. I don’t know all the specifics yet - I have a consultation on Tuesday.”

“Tuesday,” Veronica says, her voice pitching a little high with surprise. “Wow. You’re really - you’re doing this.” She tilts her head. “Would you like me to come with you?”

“Thanks, V, but - if I’m going to have a baby by myself, I should probably get used to doing things solo.”

“You can always call me if you change your mind.” Veronica drums her nails against the side of her mug. “Have you told Jughead about this?”

“Yeah. He was really supportive.” Betty gives her head a little shake, smiling to herself. “He’s been so kind to me the last few months. I’ve got to buy him an edible arrangement or something.”

“Hm, I can think of some other things he’d probably much rather eat,” Veronica says, her eyebrows informing impressive arches as she lifts her mug to her mouth to sip her drink.

“V,” Betty says in her firmest voice. “Don’t start.” She has no interest in entertaining Veronica’s wild theory that Jughead is in love with her - she’d laughed it off when she was with Trev, and she still thinks it’s ridiculous, but now that she and Jughead are both single, it feels even more strange to discuss it.

“I’m not starting anything,” Veronica says innocently. “It is a _fact_ that that boy is not nearly as mysterious as he’d like to think he is. I know what I’ve seen. I mean, do I have to bring up - ”

“Do _not_ bring up - ” Betty begins to groan, but Veronica interjects, triumphantly: “ _Louisa._ ”

Betty holds back a sigh at the mention of Jughead’s last somewhat-serious girlfriend. “Lots of people have blonde hair, Veronica,” she says patiently. “That doesn’t mean she looked ‘exactly like me’.”

“Not exactly, maybe,” Veronica concedes. “But there were _distinct_ similarities.”

Betty rolls her eyes. “Your mother is silly,” she whispers to Montgomery as he shifts in her hold, and Veronica, thankfully, lets the subject drop.

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On Tuesday, after work, Betty sits in a chair in the waiting room of the fertility clinic she’d chosen, her legs crossed under her pencil skirt and her hands clasped together firmly in her lap in an effort to contain her nervous energy. She rarely has time to think about anything but her students, boisterous and full of questions as they are, during the school day, but now that she’s here, alone, the enormity of what she’s decided to do is hitting her full force.

She forces herself to think about the text Veronica sent a couple hours ago wishing her luck, including an adorable photo of Montgomery who is, apparently, also wishing her the best. She thinks about Jughead, who’d expressed a similar sentiment as they were both hurrying out the door in the morning, and had given her shoulder a supportive squeeze. She reminds herself of the way she felt when she stopped crying over her split with Trev and started thinking about her own individual goals and dreams. She’s anxious, but she also feels _ready._

“Betty Cooper?” calls the woman who’s just stepped out into the waiting room, and Betty gets to her feet.

“Just you?” the woman, whose ID badge indicates that her name is Diane, asks with a smile.

Betty draws in a deep breath. “Just me,” she says sunnily, and follows Diane back into an office that has a few portraits of photogenic babies lining its walls.

Diane goes over all the specifics of intrauterine insemination with Betty, laying out the steps of the process, discussing success rates, and outlining what Betty can expect. After her spiel, she answers Betty’s questions and then moves on to the subject of the donor.

“All of our sperm is frozen and tested for all diseases, and all of the donors are very carefully screened,” Diane says. “Based on the profile you filled out for us, I’ve compiled this shortlist of ten options for you.” She hands Betty a binder. “All college-educated, some graduate degrees. All of them have some sort of athletic interest - running, hiking, team sports. Great familial medical histories; no chronic conditions. Four of them have previously supplied a donation for a successful pregnancy, which gives some people more confidence.” She scribbles down something on a post-it note. “Here’s a password for our online database. Feel free to browse there too - you don’t need to choose someone on the shortlist.”

“Thank you,” Betty says.

Diane must notice her slightly overwhelmed expression, because she says, “Take your time making your decision. I’d advise you to start tracking your cycle now, figuring out what your most fertile days are. And then once you’ve chosen a donor, we can get things started.” She hands Betty a pamphlet. “You’ve likely already read this information on our website, but this lays out all the pricing.”

Again, Betty says, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Diane says kindly. “Feel free to make another appointment with me if you’d like to talk anything through, once you’ve had some time to go over things. I’m here to discuss anything and everything about potential parenthood with you.”

With a little smile, Betty says, “I will.”

Diane stands up and extends her hand. “It was lovely to meet you, Betty.”

Betty tucks everything she’s been given into her purse carefully, like bending any of the corners will mean ruining her whole plan. “Same to you,” she says, and gives Diane’s hand a shake.

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When she gets home, Betty changes out of her work clothes and into leggings and a comfy shirt. She sets the binder, the log-in info, and the pamphlet on her desk to review in the morning, when her mind is sharper.

Jughead is sitting on the couch in the living room in his own set of comfortable clothes, sweatpants and a t-shirt from a half-marathon he’d reluctantly run for a community charity. He’d waved at her when she came in but hadn’t said anything, had just let her head into her room to decompress; it’s now, when she sits down on the couch cushion next to his, that he asks, “How’d it go?”

“Good,” she says. “It was good. The woman I met with was nice. They’ve already picked out a shortlist of… I don’t know what to call them. Candidates? For me.”

“Impregnation candidates,” Jughead muses. “That should be a band name.”

Betty laughs. “Start it. Jughead Jones and the Impregnation Candidates.”

He chuckles, looking at the TV for a moment, where _Taxi Driver_ is playing with the volume down low. “Did you have a look at them? The candidates?”

“No, it’s been a long day,” she sighs. “My brain’s not up for making any decisions. And I’m not even sure how to go about judging someone based on a baby photo and a piece of paper listing a few facets of their life.” She tugs the throw blanket off the back of the couch and wraps it around herself. “Seems like a task that I need to do with some wine.”

Jughead nods solemnly. “I hear a lot of people get pregnant that way.”

“Juggie,” she laughs, and gives his shoulder a gentle shove. He grins over at her and she says, “Thank you. For not thinking I’m crazy.”

“You forget that I’ve known you since we were five, Betts,” he says. “I’ve seen a lot of evidence that Betty Cooper can - and will - do anything she puts her mind to. And do it well.”

She bites her bottom lip. “You think I’ll be a good mom?”

He looks at her for a beat, and all levity is gone from his voice when he says, “I think you’ll be fucking fantastic.”

She smiles, almost blushing, and looks down into her lap. A moment later, she hears Jughead clear his throat.

“ _Game of Thrones_?” he suggests; they’re in the middle of a re-watch.

“Definitely,” she says easily, and leans against the arm of the couch, getting comfortable. She stretches her legs out until her toes are almost touching his thigh.

 

* * *

 

Jughead’s only made it two steps into the park, and he’s already sweating.

This, in his opinion, is the problem with early summer: it’s cool in the morning when he leaves for work, so he dresses warmly, but by midday the sun is beating down and _warmly_ quickly becomes _unbearably hot_. Now that he is an Official Working Man, layers are also difficult; he either has to wear long-sleeved button-downs or an actual _blazer,_ the latter of which is definitely not his style at all.

So instead, Jughead is sitting on a bench a few steps into a small park on the edge of Brownsville, just a couple of blocks from a youth-in-arts-based non-profit that he’s been working with for the last few weeks. Post-graduation, he’d secured a job with a consulting firm that specializes in governance for charitable organizations. It had originally seemed like it may be sort of dull, especially in comparison to his fifteen-year-old Pulitzer Prize dreams, but after the few years that he’s been with them, Jughead now definitely knows that he was wrong. He’s not hands on per se (the occasional participation in fundraising events aside), but the challenges that his client organizations face are likely just as exciting as any political intrigue would have been.

And the difference that they can make - that means everything to him, having grown up in a poor family with its own share of issues. Proper governance not only ensures that all of the dollars go to the right places, but building greater capacity in that area also helps the organizations to take more fulsome advantage of state and federal grant programs. At the moment, he’s working on plans for a pilot course that would teach charities how better to leverage the expertise available in similarly-targeted nonprofits and build partnerships, which he hopes will be a hit.

By night, he’s still writing the great American novel, but he’s been doing _that_ for years now and there’s only a small likelihood that it’ll ever be finished.

Nearby, there are children playing basketball, and Jughead watches them for a few moments before his scattered thoughts are interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone.

He digs it out of his pocket. “Hello?”

“Hey man. This a good time?”

 _Archie._ Jughead readjusts the phone in his hand and smiles a little. He tries to talk to his (other) childhood best friend at least once a week; it feels odd if he doesn’t, because even though he and Archie have lived on opposite coasts for years now, he is still one of the only constants in Jughead’s life. He supposes that it’s cliché to say, but they’re brothers in every way that counts, and Jughead’s not quite sure what he’d do without Archie’s upbeat, overly-righteous take on life.

“Yeah, I’ve got a few minutes,” Jughead says. “What’s up? We still down for games tonight?”

“Ah, that’s why I’m calling, I can’t anymore. Val got a last-minute gig so I’m gonna go watch. Tomorrow, though?”

Archie sounds apologetic; Jughead knows him well enough to know that he genuinely probably _is,_ even if this does happen quite frequently. Archie has always been a little impulsive and a _lot_ susceptible to the whims of whichever girl he is dating at the time, but even Jughead has to admit that his latest streak with Valerie Brown - coincidentally, the older sister of Betty’s ex - is impressive.

Besides, it’s not like Jughead’s got a lot going on. He can play video games online tomorrow just as easily as he can today.

“That’s cool,” Jughead tells him. “Maybe I can help Betty pick out someone to procreate with.”

There’s a long silence on the phone, then Archie says, _“Excuse me?”_

Jughead presses his lips together; that would probably be his reaction, too, if he was separated from the whole thing as much as Archie is. “I told you that she wanted to have a baby.”

“Yeah, but I sort of thought that was a joke.”

Jughead chuckles a little. “No, she’s dead serious. She’s had appointments and everything; she now has a big catalogue of donors to look through.”

Archie lets out a long sigh. “Jug-”

 _Oh god,_ Jughead thinks, barely a split second before Archie speaks again.

“Look, I know you’d decided to live in misery forever once Betty got engaged to Trev, but that’s over now. This has been going on _too long,_ Jug. Tell her how you feel.”

It’s Jughead’s turn to sigh; they’ve talked about this at least a hundred times over the years. Archie, bless his soul, is forever a proponent of the ‘confess your love, it’ll all work out’ approach when developing romantic feelings for friends. And for good reason: when you’re Archie, it _does_ work out, broadly speaking.

Things are not that simple when you’re Jughead Jones from Sunnyside, even if the friend in question is a girl that’s known you nearly your entire life. Maybe _especially_ in that circumstance; with Betty, there’s no smoothing over any of the less desirable parts of his past.

Still, Archie means well, and that’s the main reason that Jughead doesn’t just outright stop the conversation before it begins.

“We’ve been over this, Arch,” he says simply.

But Archie, it seems, has run out of patience. _“Jug,_ ” he says insistently, “she’s going to have a fucking _baby._ With a random sperm donor! Because - I don’t know - she assumes she’ll never meet anyone capable of fathering her child otherwise? Now is the perfect time to let her know that you’ve been obsessed with her for years.”

“That makes it sound creepy,” Jughead cuts in, making a face. “I have not been _obsessed._ I have been appropriately interested and respectful. That makes me sound pathetic. I’ve had girlfriends, I’ve _dated,_ just … none of them were Betty.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Archie sighs, his tone sounding dismissive. “I’m just saying, man. You think you’re in some kind of friend-zone-”

“I do _not,_ ” Jughead says hotly, “the friend-zone is an archaic and outdated-”

 _“Jughead._ Shut up for a second,” Archie interrupts. “Bad choice of words. What I mean is, you think that she only sees you as a friend, right? Do you just assume that or do you know it for a fact?”

Jughead is silent; he hasn’t asked her, exactly, but it’s fairly obvious at this point in their friendship.

“That’s what I thought. So you should tell her,” Archie declares. “She should know how you feel before she goes and does this crazy baby thing on her own. What do you have to lose?”

A lot, Jughead wants to say, there is a lot to lose. She would feel guilty about not returning his feelings. She’d make a sad face at the duration of his crush and touch his hand kindly, but it would be decidedly unromantic in nature. Eventually, things would get uncomfortable, and the awkwardness would end their friendship. He is not willing to risk that.

But again, Archie is ultimately and always _well-meaning_ , and Jughead answers, “I’ll consider it,” before changing the subject.

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When he gets home after work later, feeling hot and sticky and wanting nothing more than a shower and a cold milkshake (old habits, as it turns out, do indeed die _hard),_ Jughead walks into the living room and collapses dramatically at Betty’s feet.

She’s sitting on the couch, going through the same collection of sperm donors that she’s been reviewing for a couple of days now. There’s a full glass of white wine on the table beside her, next to the introductory package of pamphlets that the fertility clinic had provided. She reaches over and takes a sip before calmly remarking, “Long day, Juggie?”

“So long,” Jughead mumbles into the floor. He peeks at her with one eye. “It’s just hot. I hate long sleeves and I hate buttons.”

Betty offers a sympathetic smile. “I’m guessing your work wouldn’t want you wearing your ‘s’ t-shirts to the office.”

“I don’t think they’d fire me or anything, but yeah, it’s probably not the impression I should give.” Jughead rolls onto his back and groans. “I want ice cream.”

“There’s some in the freezer,” she informs him, lifting one of the sheets to her face. “Pistachio. This guy’s allergic to pistachios. What a coincidence.”

“Toss him,” Jughead declares. “Your kid can’t inherit that. Pistachio ice cream is from the gods.”

Betty giggles and drops a throw pillow on Jughead’s face. “I don’t think you can inherit allergies, anyway.”

“Then why do they list them on these profiles?” Jughead counters, lifting an eyebrow exaggeratedly. He taps his temple with one finger, then grins. “Checkmate.”

“You’re impossible,” Betty says fondly. “Come look at these with me. I could use another opinion.”

Jughead obeys, dragging himself to his feet and then sinking down beside Betty. He peers at the profile she’s holding. His initial reaction is that it’s odd to see the basic facts about a person distilled onto a sheet of paper. People spend years searching for the appropriate partner to marry and procreate with, but in the end, apparently all that’s really important to know about a person is whether they have a history of congenital heart defects and why they want to become a sperm donor.

Which, really, _money_ has to be the obvious answer, but this man has provided a short puff piece about _making dreams come true,_ and that alone is enough to make Jughead want to veto him.

He tells Betty as much, and she looks at him with surprise.

“You don’t think anyone would want to do this out of the goodness of their heart?” she asks.

Jughead hesitates. “I shouldn’t pre-judge anyone’s intentions, I guess,” he admits. “But that just seems like bullshit to me, the way it’s written. Potentially creating a life with someone seems like a pretty big deal, whether you’re involved or not, and I just think that if you were in it to make people happy, you’d want … I dunno, to _know_ that they were. This is just a drop in the cup, literally, and then on with your life.”

Betty bites her lip thoughtfully. “Maybe this guy has different priorities. Or maybe he doesn’t need to see the happiness manifested to know that he made a difference.”

Jughead frowns a little; he’s not sure that’s what he means, and he’s concerned that that’s what Betty took from his stammering. _I want you to be happy,_ he should say, _and I think we could have something great,_ but when his mouth opens, nothing comes out.

 

 

tbc.


	3. Chapter 3

Betty picks a donor, with the assistance of an occasional snarky comment from Jughead; he’s in graduate school studying chemical engineering, he likes to hike, he plays the violin, no chronic illnesses run in his family. She has visions of herself walking a small person to music lessons, a little hand enclosed in hers. She imagines herself piggybacking her child the last few steps to the top of a mountain. She sees herself as the embarrassingly proud mother in someone’s graduation photos.

She tracks her cycle, with the assistance of a couple boxes of ovulation tests and an app on her phone. She is fastidious about it, even tracking her basal body temperature on a little graph she’s drawn in the back of her planner. She goes to the clinic before work, at the crack of dawn, to have her blood work done. At night, when she can’t sleep, she reads blog posts by women who have done IUI. The algorithms at work in her internet browser notice something has changed, and ads for diapers and breast pumps start popping up even when she’s looking at entirely unrelated things.

On a Wednesday in late June, she’s inseminated, donor sperm injected directly into her uterus. She lays on the exam table for a few minutes afterward, as instructed, and stares up at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling, her heart feeling as though it’s fluttering in her chest, sweat prickling at her palms.

It doesn’t take.

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The blood stain she finds on her underwear when she gets up to pee in the morning feels like a soft blow to the chest.

 _You failed,_ says a nagging voice in her head. _Really, Elizabeth; this isn’t like you._

She shakes her head to clear it as she washes her hands, letting the water run off her palms long after all the soap suds have disappeared down the drain. She knows the stats backward and forward - there was only ever a twenty percent chance that it would work. Diane had coached her, gently, not to invest too much hope in this first try. She can do it again; her wedding savings were depleted somewhat when she had to pay her disappointed father back for the deposits he’d made on the venue and caterer and photographer, but she has enough for a couple more rounds.

Despite everything she knows, despite all the facts, her inner perfectionist reels with disappointment. She doesn’t take no for an answer. She gets shit done. She makes things work. A part of her thought this would be no exception.

But it is, and it hurts.

“I got my period,” she tells Jughead that evening. It’s not a sentence she ever dreamed she’d utter to him, and she stares down into her palak kofta rather than looking at him. He’d announced they were getting Indian food rather than asking her ( _Ordering Indian, how many samosas do you want_?); she suspects that he’d picked up on her somber mood.

He sets down the piece of garlic naan he’s been busy eating like he’s never seen bread before. “Betts.” He reaches across the table and very lightly encircles her wrist with his greasy fingers. “You okay?”

“Not really,” she murmurs. “I know it’s stupid - ”

“It’s not stupid,” he interrupts, a small frown forming on his face.

“It is,” she says softly, drawing in a slightly shaky breath. “It was more likely to _not_ work than it was to work, and I knew that.”

“Still. It’s not stupid to be sad.” He tilts his head just a little. “You sure you don’t just want to kidnap one of your first graders? I’ll drive the getaway car.”

She breathes a watery laugh and asks wryly, “Drive straight to Canada and start all over?”

“Yeah,” Jughead says, but the gentle, coaxing mirth in his voice is gone, and there’s a funny expression on his face, one that’s almost pained.

It’s Betty’s turn to tilt her head as she looks at him. “Jug?”

He seems to snap himself out of it, whatever _it_ is. “You’ve got curry on your chin,” he says. He lets go of her wrist and hands her a napkin.

“Thanks,” Betty says, dabbing at her face. She figures Jughead is probably tired of talking about her uterus, so she picks up her fork again and asks, “How are things down at Canvas?”

Jughead looks surprised that she’s remembered the name of his non-profit du jour; he always seems convinced that his work is boring enough to be forgettable. “They’re good,” he says, and tells her more between bites of chicken tikka masala.

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She tries again two weeks later. This time, feeling more vulnerable than she had during her first appointment, she brings along Veronica so that she’ll have a hand to hold. She feels a little jittery, trying to pull the optimism she’d had when she first committed to this plan out from wherever it’s hiding inside her.

“It’ll work, B,” Veronica says, the way Veronica says all things, with utter confidence and certainty.

Betty smiles over at her, because she appreciates the support - she said the exact same kinds of things when Veronica was curled up against her on a couch weeping over yet another red-tape delay in the adoption process - but her body and its willingness to grow a human are two of the very few things Veronica can’t control with an expectant arch of an eyebrow or the impatient tap of one of her designer shoes.

“Is this your partner?” the nurse who comes to fetch Betty asks warmly, but before she can reply, Veronica jumps in.

“Sadly, she wouldn’t have me,” she says with an overdramatic sigh, giving Betty a quick wink. “Best friend, here for moral support.”

They’re lead to the same room Betty was in during her first appointment, and once she’s on her back on the exam table in a gown, Veronica steps behind the flimsy curtain and wraps her fingers securely around Betty’s. In response, Betty shoots her a grateful smile. Even though she wants to do this, and even though she’s made up her mind to do it on her own, laying on that table while the ultrasound tech sets up makes her long, briefly but acutely, for a partner, for someone to share in her hope and her apprehension. She knows that Veronica is always there for her, and Jughead’s quiet but solid support has meant more than she has the words to tell him, but there is no one else in the world who feels quite the same way she does about the sperm that’s going to try to meet one of her eggs. No one else wants this particular baby as badly as she does.

“Does this hurt?” Veronica asks quietly.

Betty shakes her head as the doctor smiles over at them reassuringly and says, “Just a bit of discomfort.”

Veronica doesn’t look like she completely believes that answer. Her nose wrinkles slightly, and she turns her body a little so that she’s looking only at Betty’s face. “I’m glad we adopted,” she mumbles, almost to herself.

Her words surprise a laugh out of Betty, and the knot of tension in her belly begins to loosen.

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She goes home after her appointment and makes dinner. Every time her thoughts starting drifting toward the baby that may or may not come to be after this round of insemination (for the next five to ten days, it’s Schrödinger’s fetus: both in and out of existence), she orders herself to focus on the tasks at hand: chopping carrots, preheating the oven, sprinkling salt and pepper over the salmon she’s preparing.

It’s a recipe for disaster, pouring all her expectations into something that has an eighty percent chance of _not_ coming to fruition. She knows better.

When Jughead gets home, they sit down on the couch with their plates and eat while they watch _Game of Thrones_. By the time the credits begin to roll, their empty plates are sitting on the coffee table and they’re both slouched back into the cushions, taking turns yawning.

“Dinner was great, Betty,” he tells her. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” she says, stretching her arms up over her head, trying to beckon her second wind. “I think I might throw some of the vegetables in the fridge into the slow cooker with some stock tomorrow morning, make kind of a kitchen-sink soup. That sound okay?”

“You could cook me the literal kitchen sink and I’d eat it.”

She laughs quietly, stifling yet another yawn. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Speaking of… cooking.” Jughead gestures to her entire midsection with a somewhat awkward movement of his hand that makes Betty smile. “How are you doing with… that?”

“I’m alright,” she says. “I mean - I could be great. I could be amazing. There could be a zygote in there right now. But I… I have to try and manage my own expectations. It can’t be good to invest all your feelings in one thing. Or, I guess - person, in this case. You know?”

Jughead’s hair is a mess atop is head from the way he’s been sitting, and something about it strikes her as endearing. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “I know.”

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But in the morning, in spite of herself, Betty wakes up with a sense that something is different, that something has shifted. She gets up before her alarm, eyes opening slowly and leisurely rather than with a frantic rush, and has the feeling that her dream was a good one. There’s the slightest bit of cramping low in her abdomen, which is a normal side effect of her procedure the day before, but she didn’t experience it the previous month, and she can’t help but assign just a smidge of meaning to it.

She has early-detection pregnancy tests stowed away in the bathroom cupboard, but it’s too early even for those, so she decides not to jinx her good feelings by taking one. Instead, she unrolls her yoga mat across the living room floor and does sun salutations.

Jughead emerges from his room while she’s opening her solar plexus to the ceiling. “You’re making me feel unathletic _and_ unenlightened,” he mutters as he shuffles toward the coffeemaker.

“Come get your downward dog on, then,” she teases, folding back to the floor.

“I don’t bend that way,” he says, scooping coffee grounds.

Betty breathes a laugh, settling onto her mat to do shavasana. She closes her eyes and listens to Jughead puttering around the kitchen, the opening and closing of cupboards, the pop of bread from the toaster, the sound of coffee being poured into two cups. When she gets to her feet again, a mug, a carton of almond milk, and a jar of honey are sitting on the side of the table that’s usually hers. Jughead is sitting on the other side, hunched over his cup of coffee like it’s the elixir of life.

“Late night?” she asks, stirring almond milk and a drop of honey into her coffee.

He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Thought I figured out my plot hole. Turns out I didn’t actually. It’s kind of starting to feel more like a plot crater.”

“Would a conveniently-timed case of amnesia help?”

Jughead glances up at her, faux offense on his face. “It’s not a _soap opera_ , Betty.”

“Isn’t it?” She folds her legs up under herself in her chair. “I thought it was loosely based on everything that happened with Jason Blossom during high school. Back then it definitely felt like we were living in a soap opera sometimes.”

“I just don’t want the absurdity to feel… absurdist. Which is probably impossible, I know.”

“I don’t know that that’s true,” she muses. “I mean, it did happen. We were right in the thick of it. Maybe you could try really latching onto the emotion of it all. How it felt for all of us, for the town. That part wasn’t absurd. Unless - ” She bites her bottom lip. “Unless that’s not somewhere you want to go,” she adds in a softer voice. “When it comes to your dad.”

Jughead’s shoulders lift and fall in a tired shrug, like they’ve made that gesture so many times before that they no longer have quite enough energy. “It’s good advice.”

Betty wets her lips, studying his face. She feels bad for having brought it up. “I mean, I don’t really know anything. I can barely get my students to write in full sentences.”

One corner of his mouth quirks upward. “You know a lot, Betts. If our positions were reversed you’d probably have finished your novel by now.”

“While you were encouraging the minds of tomorrow to scorn capitalist ideals and to embrace the comfort of flannel?”

He narrows his eyes. “She says as if one of my shirts didn’t _mysteriously_ go missing that time we combined our laundry and _magically_ end up in one of your drawers.”

“We have a ghost, I told you,” she says innocently, getting up and carrying her mug over to the counter. She opens up the refridgerator and starts emptying out the crispers. Jughead puts a playlist on and washes her knives, cutting boards, and measuring cups as she uses them. By the time she turns on the slow cooker, he’s putting their breakfast dishes in the dishwasher.

“I need to grab a shower, and then we’ll get groceries?” she proposes as she dries her hands.

“Sure, take your time,” Jughead says, and the sound of eggs being cracked into a skillet as she closes the door of the bathroom confirms her suspicion: he’s eating a second breakfast.

Betty takes a fairly quick shower, not allowing herself to check and see if the feeling she’d had this morning is somehow being reflected by some change in her body. She washes her hair, scrubs her skin, and shaves her legs, then towels off and gets dressed in casual weekend clothes - leggings and a long t-shirt - and wraps her wet hair into a bun.

Jughead’s in the kitchen, sitting where she left him, but now he’s dressed too, and scrolling through something on his phone. “Ready to go?” she asks him sunnily, going to retrieve the re-useable bags.

“Yeah,” he says, but he doesn’t get up, and when Betty turns to him again, he’s looking at her thoughtfully. “You seem happy,” he says off her inquisitive look.

She smiles and shrugs one shoulder. “I guess I am.”

Since it’s a nice day, they walk to Trader Joe’s instead of taking the subway, stopping for another cup of coffee on the way. She’s glad for the company - she’d grown used to doing things with a partner, and she appreciates Jughead’s willingness to accompany her on weekly grocery runs and be the designated cart pusher. She could take their joint, percentage-of-income-based food budget and go on her own, but it’s much nicer to do a necessary adult task with someone else along to provide opinions on pasta brands and to make her laugh with a childlike display of enthusiasm in the cereal aisle.

Today is no exception, and Jughead hovers back by some kind of chocolate-y cereal after Betty’s carried on down the aisle. His expression, when she backtracks toward him, is wide-eyed and silly, but there’s a hint of genuine excitement there too.

“It’s on sale, Betty,” he says. “Two for _one_.”

She tilts her head toward the cart, a silent granting of permission, and when he smiles and drops two boxes in, like she actually has the power to dictate what breakfast food he eats, she has to press her lips together tightly to keep from laughing.

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On Monday morning, she gives in and takes a pregnancy test. It’s negative. She spends the evening lesson planning to distract herself, and she reads out the most creative wrong answers on the spelling tests she’s marking to Jughead in between his bursts of typing.

On Tuesday, there is another negative test, and on Wednesday, yet another single line stares back at her from the indicator window. On Thursday, she buys a different brand on the way home from work and takes it before bed. As she changes into her pyjamas, she tells herself not to worry, because the best readings are done in the morning.

She skips out on any tests on Friday, deciding that she might be putting too much pressure on herself. She asks Jughead if he wants to order pizza - he looks at her as though she has six heads and doesn’t dignify the question with a response - and allows herself to eat four slices instead of her usual three. She watches _Serendipity_ on Netflix by herself in her dark bedroom.

The test she takes on Saturday morning is negative, as is the one she takes in the early afternoon after the week’s groceries have been put away. Jughead catches her eye when she emerges from the bathroom, and she sees a crease of concern between his brows, but she glances away pointedly, hoping that he’ll understand she doesn’t want to talk. She still has two days before she hits the ten-days-post-insemination mark. It’s fine. She’s fine.

Early on Sunday morning, she finds herself whispering _please_ to a plastic stick as she perches on the edge of the bathtub, her phone’s timer counting down minutes. When it beeps, and she allows herself to look, there is only a single line in the indicator window, not even the sliver or the shadow of a second.

There’s still one more day. Tomorrow, she’ll take one of the expensive tests, the ones that have words in the little window rather than lines. She’ll hold her breath as she waits for the results.

But she won’t be expecting much, because she knows. In her heart, she just knows.

It didn’t take. Again.

 

* * *

 

Jughead’s toe twitches inside his boot, perennially fidgeting even as his hands remain still and resting on the table in front of him. He’s sitting in an end-of-collaboration meeting with two of the directors of Canvas, the arts-based non-profit he’s been working with for the last little while. His contract with them is up - he has another consultancy tenure lined up beginning on the following Tuesday - and as is his company’s policy, they’re conducting a short post-involvement interview.

“We can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve done for us,” one of the directors, a woman named Sabrina, gushes. She leans across the table, smiling earnestly, and tucks a lock of her short, white-blonde hair behind her ear. “The diversification of our board, even just based on the one introductory meeting we’ve had, is already going to be a success. I can just tell.”

“Not to mention the other recommendations you’ve provided,” her colleague, a short, older man named Oscar echoes. “Your assistance has been money well spent, Mr. Jones.”

Jughead shakes the hand that Oscar offers. “You’re welcome,” he says, “and please send updates. Becky, our files assistant, will be in touch to share the follow-up templates, but I always like to hear personally as well.”

He stands up, sensing a conclusion to the meeting, and stacks his file folder on top of his closed laptop. Oscar gives him a nod farewell, then slips out of the boardroom. In contrast, Sabrina lingers; she stands too, but folds her arms and leans against the table.

“Honestly, Jughead, I think Canvas is going to be one hundred percent better in six months’ time,” she tells him.

Jughead nods politely at her. “I hope so. You guys are doing great work here - just need to get a broader perspective, and that’ll help you advance a bit further. The nonprofit world can be pretty cutthroat, surprisingly.”

“Oh I _know,”_ Sabrina remarks, laughing a little. “Turns out even us do-gooders have dark sides.”

He shrugs. “Nah, I think you just put anyone in a competitive environment, and human nature does the rest.” He slings his bag across his chest; she’s sort of blocking his way, but she’s also not making any effort to move. “Anyway, it’s been nice working with you guys. Good luck with the rest of the summer programs.”

“Thanks.” Sabrina presses her lips together and then parts them quickly, making a faint _smack_ sound. “So Jughead, I was thinking - um - now that you’re not formally working with our organization anymore, are you - would you be interested in going for a drink sometime?” She clears her throat, and adds, “With me.”

Although he’s not really interested in dating at the moment, her unnecessary addition makes Jughead chuckle. Sabrina seems like a nice woman - nice, funny, pretty - and he’s not so far up his own ass that he hasn’t noticed her flirting with him over the last few weeks. He hasn’t really been reciprocating, partly because he still feels confused about Betty, and partly because he’s generally pretty bad at flirting.

That said, Sabrina is kind of his type - blonde, slender, friendly (he _doesn’t_ want to talk about it, thank you Archie) - and he probably _should_ be moving on with his life. After all, Betty sure is - hell, she’s probably pregnant right at this minute, growing a baby that’s half hers and half someone else’s, having decided what she wanted and gone after it. While the pregnancy aspect of her goal-setting had taken him off guard, this _is_ textbook Betty: determined, focused, resolute.

And since he’d also steadfastly ignored Archie’s advice and not told Betty about his latent feelings for her, Jughead also knows that he can’t put the blame for his general unhappiness with the situation on anybody but himself. He’s also not in the business - despite his track record - of actively and repeatedly _making_ himself depressed (at least, he’s really trying _not_ to).

So Jughead says yes.

They exchange numbers, make tentative plans for Saturday, and then he leaves. He sends a text to Betty asking about dinner - he’s technically supposed to cook today, but the concept of takeout fried chicken has been top of mind all day, so he’s testing the viability of that plan - then messages Archie about his date. Just as he’s replying to an encouraging _**yeahhh BUDDY!** ,_ a reply from Betty pops up.

_**Go ahead and get dinner from wherever you’d like. I’m not in the mood to eat so I’ll pass.** _

Jughead slows his pace on the sidewalk as he frowns at his phone. She’s not really into fried chicken, in his experience, but it’s also unlike her to not at least make a joke about his arteries seizing whenever he suggests substantially unhealthy food plans. He thinks for a moment, and then he remembers: today she had another follow-up appointment with her specialist. There’s no happy lilt to her message, no vaguely apologetic smiley-face or added joke. He’s felt the tension and anxiety radiating off of her all week, and he _knows_ that she practically bought out the drug store of its stock of pregnancy tests.

His heart sinks for her with his sudden realization: she’s not pregnant. It didn’t work, for the second time.

Jughead abandons his plans to stop at KFC and instead gets a cab to take him to Lilia in Williamsburg, Betty’s favourite Italian restaurant. He recalls something that Veronica had said to him once, shortly after he’d broken up with his last girlfriend: “Carbs always help.” He orders an obscene amount of takeout, making sure to get two orders of spaghetti with anchovies, then takes a seat at the bar. As he waits, nursing a water, he looks out the window and spots a bird perched atop a traffic light. It twitches its head, surveying the intersection, then takes flight.

An old song immediately starts playing in his head: _Like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in my way to be free._

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It’s worse than he thought.

When Jughead gets home, he stops first in the kitchen to set the takeout bags on the counter. He peeks around to the living room, but Betty isn’t sitting on the couch or even staring out the window like she’s taken to doing lately, yet her shoes and purse are sitting by the door. He deduces that she must be in her bedroom, and while he typically would leave her alone in that case, if his suspicions are correct, Jughead knows that she must be hurting.

So without a second thought, he gently knocks on her door. He doesn’t wait for a response before turning the doorknob and stepping in, only to see a pile of blankets on her bed with a few locks of blonde hair sticking out from underneath it. The pile is shaking slightly, and making quiet noises that he recognizes as suppressed sobs.

 _Fuck._ Not only is she crying, but she’s trying to hide it.

He sits gingerly on the edge of the bed and lays an arm across the pile. “Betts,” he murmurs, “it’s me.”

The pile makes a quiet grunting sound in recognition, then one of her hands shoots out and grasps around, directionless.

Jughead takes it and presses his palm firmly to hers. She makes no effort to move or speak, so for a few minutes, he doesn’t either. Finally, he asks, “Do you want a hug?”

She shifts beneath the blankets. Two layers of comforter come off before Betty’s head surfaces. Her ponytail is loose - a sure sign of distress if there ever was one - but it’s the tear stains on her cheeks that break Jughead’s heart. She sniffs and nods wordlessly, then slips her arms around his neck.

He wraps his around her waist and holds tightly. “You can try again,” he reminds her softly. “You know the statistics.”

Betty presses her face into his shoulder and shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she mumbles against his shirt. “My mom and Polly both got pregnant in high school. We’re a very fertile family. Maybe this is a sign.”

Jughead scoffs at that before he can stop himself. “Betty-”

“I mean it,” she hiccups, pulling back slightly and wiping her nose on her sleeve. “This is what I _want,_ so badly, but … maybe it doesn’t - maybe it doesn’t want _me.”_ She blinks rapidly, raising her eyes to the ceiling. “And I’m running out of money,” she adds quietly, turning her face away as her ears turn pink. “I had to pay Dad back for a lot of wedding stuff, and this isn’t exactly free. Maybe the universe is telling me that I shouldn’t bother.”

“Hey,” he chides gently, turning her face toward his. “The universe isn’t telling you anything. Remember when I had to live with the foster family in Greendale for a few months in tenth grade? I thought the universe was trying to tell me something then, too, about where I belonged and who I was supposed to be. Do you remember what you said to me?”

Betty nods, raising her eyes to meet his. “I told you that you belonged there with us, as much as anyone else does.”

“That’s right,” Jughead confirms. “So it’s my turn to tell you that you're wrong. You are meant to be a mother, Betty, more than anyone else I’ve ever met, if you want to be. And it’ll happen. I know it will.”

She swallows and nods slowly. “Okay,” she whispers.

“And if money is the issue - I have some savings-”

“No,” she interrupts. “No, thank you, that’s not necessary - but it’s very sweet of you to offer.” She lifts her palm to his face. It’s warm and soft, like her, and _god,_ he’s such a jackass.

Jughead fights the urge to lean further into her touch. “I know you said you weren’t hungry, but I brought takeout anyway. From Lilia. In the words of the infamous Veronica Lodge-”

“Carbs always help,” Betty finishes. She sniffles, smiling a little, and swipes at the tears beneath her eyes. “She’s not wrong.” She leans in and kisses his cheek. “Thank you, Juggie,” she says, climbing off the bed.

He stares after her as she walks into the hallway. “You’re welcome,” he tells the empty room. His stomach feels unsettled.

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Half an hour later, when he’s sitting on the couch with Betty cuddled into his side, Jughead identifies the feeling as guilt.

They’d eaten dinner, he’d started another episode of _Game of Thrones,_ then Betty had grabbed one of the blankets from her bedroom and come to sit next to him. Betty’s always been more physically affectionate, broadly, than he is, but he doesn’t mind. His listing of people that he’s _that level_ of comfortable with is essentially made up of just her, and occasionally a girlfriend if he has one at the time (which is quite a short list in and of itself).

Jughead is intimately familiar both with solitude and sadness. Through the years, he’s done pretty well by himself, dealing with every new familial misstep with a now-well-honed routine of writing, suppressed anger, and black coffee. And while he knows that Betty has personally dealt with a lot of her own emotional distress, it’s usually been accompanied by some form of physical comfort: a hug from Trev, a full-body attack by Veronica, a friendly pat on the shoulder from Archie.

She doesn’t seem to seek him out often, he’s observed, and through the years Jughead has tried desperately hard not to read into that.

But today, he is all she’s got, so he lifts his arm and invites her to tuck herself under his shoulder. She acquiesces instantly, even offering part of her blanket to him, and Jughead immediately feels - again - like a jackass.

Because he’s fucking _relieved,_ is the truth. She’s heartbroken over the failure of her insemination and here he is, glad for the exact same reason. Jughead has never felt more conflicted in his life. He wants her to be happy, _truly,_ he does. He’d move the earth make that happen. But somewhere inside him, in the place where his love for her is hidden, he’s happy that she’s not going to be bearing some other guy’s children.

“I’m sorry, Betty,” Jughead tells her, and he doesn’t elaborate on what for.

She seems to assume the obvious (incorrect) reason. “I’m going to take a few days off of thinking about it,” she tells him. “I’d taken some days from work anyway, and I think - I think I’m going to give myself that time to just … be.”

A kernel of an idea floats through Jughead’s head, and he pulls his cell phone out, tilting the screen away from Betty’s sight. He thumbs a quick message to Sabrina, cancelling their plans for Saturday, then noses at Betty’s hair and plants a kiss somewhere in the tangles.

Then, in that neglected corner of his heart, another part of the Leonard Cohen song from Lilia begins playing.

_If I, if I have been untrue, I hope you know it was never to you..._

 

 

tbc.


	4. Chapter 4

On Thursday night, Betty gets into bed and sets her alarm with every intention of getting up early to make Jughead brunch, since she's taken the day off. He’s been so sweet to her lately, through all the trying-to-get-pregnant stuff, and when she wants to thank Jughead for something, she almost always does it with food.

She’s known for her entire life, basically, that a kind heart lies beneath Jughead’s occasionally rough exterior: he adores his little sister, his work involves helping charities and non-profits succeed, and he’s been a dedicated friend to her, and to Archie, for decades. She’s never doubted how wonderful he is, and indeed, she used to pitch him that way to her friends in college; _Jughead’s so wonderful, he just needs a couple dates to warm up!_ Her promise never seemed to be fulfilled, however, and she was told that Jughead was pretentious, or unreachable, or that he just hadn’t seemed interested. Betty accepted that he wouldn’t click with everyone, and decided to be grateful that he clicked with her.

These past couple days, though - he’s sort of blown her away. She doesn’t fully know how to express her gratitude for the patient way he’s listened to her talk through her feelings, for the way he’d let her curl her body against the side of his as they sat on the couch and the way his hand had drifted soothingly up and down her arm, for the calm sense of certainty he seems to have that she’ll get what she wants, one way or another. When he’d offered - in passing, and casually, but _still_ \- to invest some of his own savings in this potentially-crazy project of hers, she’d hardly known what to say. She’d never take his money, of course, but the way he’d suggested it, so easily, touched her profoundly. There had been a little twist of something in her stomach when he said those words, and since then she’s felt it again once or twice, glancing over at him sitting on the other side of the sofa or rubbing at his tired eyes as he stands by the coffeemaker.

( _Girl, he is_ in love _with you_ , Veronica’s exasperated voice insists in the back of Betty’s mind. She pushes the thought away dismissively. Veronica just doesn’t understand. A friendship that lasts so many years, that was forged so strongly in the fires of childhood that a bit of distance or the occasional lapse in communication can’t even dent it - especially a platonic one, when the parties involved are of opposite sexes and straight - is rare. Romance, to Veronica, is the expected ending; two longtime friends from opposite sides of the tracks grow up and realize they were Meant for Each Other All Along.

But that’s not what it is, not with her and Jughead. He’s had all these years to say something, and she’s had all these years to notice sparks between them. He’s stayed quiet, and she hasn’t seen any bright lights.)

She falls asleep fairly quickly, Netflix playing at a low volume on the dimmed screen of her laptop. When she wakes up, it’s not to the persistent sound of her alarm but rather to sounds of movement in her room, and a slight jostling at the end of her mattress.

Her eyes fly open and she sits up abruptly only to see Jughead standing at the foot of her bed, above a small pile of clothes that he’s extracted from her dresser. She spots a bathing suit, a cover-up, some denim shorts, and a baseball cap.

Sleepily, she murmurs, “What’s…”

“We’re going to Montauk,” he says.

Betty squints, lifting a hand to push her tangled hair out of her face. “What?”

“Cottage is booked, car’s rented. I’ve got to go pick it up, and you’ve got to pack.” Jughead smiles at her and her lashes flutter quickly as she blinks, prompting her brain to catch up to what’s happening. “Operation Cheer Up Betty Cooper starts at oh-nine-hundred hours. You better get moving.”

He’s left her room again by the time Betty actually _does_ move, throwing back her blankets and half-running into the hall. “Juggie,” she says with a stunned little shake of her head, watching as he collects his keys from the small bowl by the front door.

He smiles again, and this time Betty finds herself returning it. “Get packed, Betts,” he prompts, setting a hand on the doorknob.

The door closes behind him, and Betty stands in the hall for a moment, still digesting this surprise, before she breathes a soft laugh and walks back into her bedroom, retrieving a backpack from the closet and beginning to pack beach-y things.

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As they pass Napeague, Betty rolls down her window and lets the wind play with the few wisps of hair that have escaped from her topknot. The combination of the cool wind and the hot sun feels great on her skin, and she pushes her sunglasses atop her head and closes her eyes, revelling in it.

“You didn’t have to do this, Jug,” she says, raising her voice just a little to be heard over the roar of the wind coming into the car. They’d spent the bulk of the drive sipping iced coffees and listening to episodes of _My Favorite Murder_ ; the quiet between them had been comfortable and conversation hadn’t really felt necessary. Now, though, they’ve run out of pre-downloaded podcast episodes, and since Betty can already feel her spirits beginning to lift, she feels compelled to say something.

In the driver’s seat, Jughead shrugs, tapping his fingers absently against the wheel. “Wanted to,” he says simply.

Voice soft, she asks, “Why?”

For a moment, she thinks the word may have gotten lost in the wind, but then he tells her, “Our walls aren’t that thick, Betts. I heard you crying in the shower.”

She grimaces. “I’m sorry. Jughead, really - I’m sorry. You were just… living a life that you seemed pretty happy with, and then all of a sudden I came crashing in, and probably just when you were getting used to a girl who broke off her engagement living in your apartment, then you had a girl who's decided she wants to embark on single motherhood, but in yet _another_ plot twist, she can’t, so now she’s crying everyday - ” She blows out a breath. “I should probably start looking for my own place soon. I’ve taken advantage of your hospitality for long enough.”

“Stop, Betty,” he says, frowning faintly, glancing over at her briefly before he focuses his gaze on the road once again. “It’s not like that. It’s more like… depressingly anti-social weirdo spends all his time working on a novel that may or may not ever be published and no time cooking real food for himself or bothering to clean his windowsills, until one day an old friend takes him up on a housing offer, reintroduces him to vegetables and saves him from scurvy, and shows him that the tiles in his shower were not _actually_ greyish, just dirty.”

She smiles down into her lap. “You’re not a _weirdo_ , Jughead.”

“And you’re not a… _bother_ , Betty. I like having you around. I’ve told you that.”

“Me _and_ my baggage?”

One corner of his mouth twitches upward, and he shrugs again. “There’s plenty of room.”

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The ShareBnB cottage Jughead’s rented for them is beautiful, full of light and airy, its soft blue walls covered with art composed of pieces of sea glass for decoration. It smells like sunscreen and salt water.

There’s only one bed. Jughead drops his half-full duffel on the couch, leaving the bedroom for her. Betty figures they can argue about it later; once he’s sun-tired and full from dinner, she might be able to persuade him to trade, or just to sleep on the other side of the bed.

She wanders out onto the little porch and shields her eyes from the sun as she looks out over the water. It’s calm, waves drifting up over the sand slowly, and the sight gives her a sense of peace she can’t quite ever find in the city, the kind of quiet serenity she remembers from sitting on the rocks down by Sweetwater River as a little girl, a knobby-kneed boy on either side of her.

“This is beautiful,” she tells Jughead, soft and sincere.

When she turns to him, she finds that he’s looking at her, rather than at the ocean. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Let me buy you lunch?” she proposes. “As a thank-you?”

Jughead nods. “Want to throw your swim stuff on first? We can head right to the beach after.”

“Sure. We just have to wait half an hour after eating so we don’t - ” She stops when one of his eyebrows drifts upward. “Sorry,” she says sheepishly. “You’re an adult.”

He smiles and turns to walk back into the cottage, but then seems to change his mind and looks over at her again. “You’re going to be a mom, Betty,” he says. “You’ve got to be.”

She smiles back at him, and while she knows there’s a little sadness in it, the shape of that smile doesn’t feel totally out of place on her lips. She mouths _thanks_ rather than saying it, since the sound of the word seems to get stuck in her throat. Jughead drops his chin in a brief nod and disappears inside, leaving her to breathe in the fresh air.

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They get sandwiches and freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies at a little cafe and eat their lunch outside on its small patio. Montauk is bustling with tourists, and Betty can see Jughead people-watching, cataloguing small moments and mannerisms to incorporate into his manuscript. She watches him watch the world, hiding the start of a grin by biting into her sandwich.

Afterward, they walk to the beach and lay their towels out on the sand. Betty extracts the magazine she’d purchased when they stopped to get gas from her bag and drops it onto her towel before she wiggles her denim shorts off her hips and peels her tank top up over her head, glancing over at Jughead only once she’s finished taking off her clothes. He’s taken off his t-shirt, kicked off his shoes, and flopped down on his own towel, having produced a copy of _Portnoy’s Complaint_ from somewhere.

Betty rubs sunscreen into her arms and legs, her stomach, her chest, and her neck before she tosses the bottle over to him. She waits until he’s slathered his own body with a protective layer and then presses her lips together, coughing to clear her throat before she asks, “Will you do my back?”

Jughead looks vaguely startled by the question but says, “Sure.” He squeezes some sunscreen into a palm and Betty turns her back to him, gathering her hair, which has fallen out of its knot, out of the way. Her heart is beating quickly. She’s been in swimming situations with Jughead tons of times before, and they frequently see each other wrapped up in towels after their showers, but this is possibly the most _naked_ she’s ever felt around him, with his hands skimming over skin he never normally touches: the column of her neck, the ridges of her spine, the dip at the small of her back. There is a surprising strength to his hands; there are callouses on the tips of his fingers. She feels inexplicably relieved that she’s wearing her favourite bikini, the black-and-white striped one.

Once he’s done, she asks, “You too?” and with a why-the-hell-not expression on his face, he turns away from her. She places sunscreen-covered palms on his back and finds muscles where she didn’t know he had them. His back is nice. _Really_ nice, if she’s being honest, and when she’s finished rubbing in SPF and he shifts on his towel so that she’s looking at his profile, she notices that his arms are nice, too. And his pecs.

 _Are you checking out Jughead?_ she asks herself, taken aback by her own observations. She thinks the answer is no, not really. She’s just noticing him in ways she hasn’t before, just because this isn’t a context in which they usually find themselves. He’s no longer somewhat scrawny, like he was as a teenager - and while this has probably been the case for years, there’s nothing wrong with noticing it now.

They both read for a while, Jughead underlining things and scribbling in the margins of his book with a dull pencil. Betty flips through her magazine and then lays her cheek on her folded hands, watching a nearby toddler dig in the sand with a plastic shovel from behind her sunglasses. Her heart aches just a little, and instead of resisting the feeling, she lets herself sink into it until it slowly ebbs away.

She lays on her back for a bit to even out whatever tan she’s getting - Jughead, who’s been hunched over his book since they arrived, seems to have no such concern - and then says, “I want to swim.”

Jughead nods, tucking his pencil into his book to mark his page, and stretches his arms up over his head. Betty tries not to stare and fails.

She gets to her feet, tucking her magazine back in the tote bag she’d brought, and looks at him for another moment. “Jughead,” she says quietly.

“What?” he asks, tipping his head back to look at her.

The way he’s squinting against the sun is impossibly endearing; Betty gives her head a small shake to clear it of that thought and changes tack. “Last one in’s a rotten egg,” she says breezily, and then shoots him a mischievous grin before she takes off for the water.

“Come back here, Cooper!” she hears him call after her, and she laughs as her toes dig into the sand with each step.

Even though she’s the runner out of the two of them, Jughead’s taller and has a longer stride, so it doesn’t take long for him to catch her. He crashes through the waves behind her and grabs her around the waist, making her shriek as he spins her around so that she’s the one closer to the shore.

“Looks like you’re the rotten egg,” he says, a bit breathlessly, nodding to where she’s standing as if he’s not holding her there, his hands still on the damp skin of her hips.

“I said last one _in_ ,” Betty tells him in her own breathless voice. “I got in first.”

“You sure about that?” he asks, smiling, and she rolls her eyes, bending down to splash water at him before she says, “ _Yes._ ”

“Oh,” he says, his eyes gleaming after he’s blinked the water out of them. “It is _on_ , Elizabeth Cooper.”

“Don’t,” she says on a giggle - one that sounds strangely flirtatious - as she backs away from him. He keeps moving toward her, faux-menacing, and she says, “Seriously. Jughead - _Forsythe_ \- don’t - ”

Jughead lunges toward her and pulls her down into the water, submerging them both. Betty opens her eyes briefly beneath the water’s surface and sees seaweed and seashells and Jughead’s face very close to her own.

She comes up laughing and spluttering, and splashes him the moment he surfaces. “I can’t believe you.”

“I can’t believe _you_ ; calling me a rotten egg.”

She pouts at him in mock-sympathy. “Truth hurts sometimes, Juggie.”

He splashes water at her in retaliation, and she moves backward, nearly tripping over a rock. She’s about to fall onto her ass when Jughead grabs her elbow, keeping her upright. Her hand presses briefly against his chest as she regains her balance, and she peeks up into his face. He’s smiling, one of those fully joyful, uninhibited smiles that seem, sometimes, like they don’t come to him so easily. She smiles back, the sun beating down on her shoulders.

She feels better than she has in several days, better than she has since her last appointment at the clinic left her feeling defeated. Jughead’s fingertips brush along her forearm after he releases her elbow, and that odd twisty feeling in her stomach returns.

 

* * *

 

Although they’ve already drowned Betty’s sorrows in carbs once this week, Jughead makes the executive decision to order pizza and caesar salad for dinner anyway. He bypasses a couple of higher-end-looking places and instead chooses delivery from a slightly run-down but decades-old and highly-rated Montauk institution, Pizza Village, after going through his well-honed restaurant evaluation system (a combination of Trip Advisor and Yelp reviews, plus the famous Jones instinct).

After placing the order, Jughead walks out to the main living area of the cottage and sees Betty standing by the window, staring out. The sun is moving west across the sky, taking the daytime with it and leaving only strands of oranges and pinks as evidence of its presence.

“Nice sky,” he remarks, joining her at the window.

Betty tears her eyes away from the darkening sea and smiles at him. “For a nice day.” She reaches over and squeezes his forearm briefly before folding her hands together. “Thank you again, for this.”

“No problem,” he replies easily. “There’s beer in the fridge, if you wanna tuck into that a little before the food comes. Wine, too.”

This piques her interest. “You have a preference?” she asks, already stepping backward toward the small galley kitchen.

Jughead shrugs noncommittally. He isn’t really much of a drinker - his father’s experiences are a little too much for him to find a whole lot appealing about it - but he does think that if there was ever a time for a cold beer, it would be now: under the warm air, at the beach, with a girl like _her._

“Dealer’s choice,” he tells Betty.

She comes back with two beers, cans of Driftwood Ale from the Montauk Brewing Company - the product of a pit-stop on the way into town, when they’d also picked up a few basic groceries for breakfasts - and hands Jughead one. He accepts it, then nods his head toward the little deck in a wordless question.

“Sure,” Betty agrees, slipping her feet back into flip-flop sandals. He watches; her toes are a vibrantly-coloured pink, a slight surprise given a recent (and mild) rebellion she seems to be having toward Alice Cooper’s colour of choice, and they lead into long, lean legs that he’s been trying very hard not to stare at all day.

Originally, when Jughead had first started planning the trip to Montauk to try to cheer Betty up, he’d thought of the beach, the sand, and the cute shops in town that he knew she’d like. Obviously, bathing suits came hand-in-hand with this sort of trip, but it hadn’t been top of mind. At least not until Betty had removed her tank top and shorts, revealing a bikini that - while he’s seen it multiple times - was _not_ ineffective in attracting his attention. Her looks have never been the significant part of his feelings for her, however suppressed they might be at the time, but he’s also certainly never been blind to the fact that Betty, with her toned curves, bright eyes, and full lips, is a very beautiful woman.

For her sake, he’s been trying to actively ignore that fact all day, but it hasn’t really been working. Even now, post-ocean swim, she’s changed out of her bathing suit and into her old cheerleading shorts, and at least thirty percent of Jughead’s brain is _still_ occupied by the thought that there is no possible way Betty can be wearing a bra underneath her strappy tank top.

(He’s pretty proud of the fact that he didn’t spontaneously combust when she asked him to rub sunscreen onto her back.)

Betty steps onto the porch. Through the screen door, she calls, “Bring the blanket from that little couch, in case it gets chilly.”

Jughead obeys, draping the nautical blue-and-white flannel over his arm before joining her on the porch swing. He sets his beer on the small table to his right and then looks out over the water. Faintly, he can hear the sound of fire crackling, and he finds himself wishing he’d rented a cottage with a fire pit so that they could have marshmallows and s’mores. He expresses this regret to Betty, who makes a sharp _tsk_ noise and pokes his arm.

“Don’t be silly, Juggie,” she chastises, “this is already perfect.”

“I hope so,” he says, staring down at his own feet, which are decidedly less pretty than hers. “You deserve to be happy, Betts.”

She doesn’t respond immediately, but just before he can lift his head to glance her way, Betty’s arms reach over and encircle his shoulders. She tugs herself closer, her lips press to his cheek, and she asks (rhetorically, he hopes), “How did you get so sweet?”

The buzzing of Jughead’s cell phone interrupts the side-embrace, and he tugs it out of his pocket, apologizing. “Sorry, I thought it was on silent,” he says, quickly scanning the message that flashes on the screen from Archie: **_Val and I have a show in San Fran tomorrow, so early good luck on your date, dude!_**

He dismisses the text, sliding his thumb quickly to make it disappear, but he’s too slow for Betty.

She reaches out and catches his wrist. “Is that from Archie?” she asks, all soft lashes as her eyes lower to his phone. “How are he and Val - hang on.” Her jaw hangs loosely. “Jug, do you have a date tomorrow?”

 _Fuck._ Despite the one-sided awkwardness he sometimes feels about discussing his other (mostly theoretical) romantic partners with Betty, who he’s been stupidly in love with for years, Jughead _had_ planned on telling her about the date with Sabrina. If, of course, he’d actually gone on it. Once the Montauk idea started to formulate, when it became clear to Jughead that he was going to have to cancel their Saturday plans, he’d done so without a second thought. Betty, his best friend, is infinitely more important than a date that he’d been hesitant about to begin with. At that stage, there was no point in telling her about Sabrina at all, partly since Jughead’s pretty sure he’s never going to see her again, and partly because he _knows_ Betty would feel unnecessarily guilty about it.

“I did,” he says evasively, taking a long swig of his beer. “Past tense.”

Betty stares at him. “With who?”

“Sabrina. From Canvas. She asked me out.” Through the screen door, he hears a knock reverberate throughout the cottage, and stands to get the pizza.

Betty shifts on the swing, turning her body steadily to keep facing him as he walks around her legs. “What happened?”

“I canceled it,” he informs her simply. “Not a big deal. I felt sort of awkward about it anyway, so really, this is better.”

He leaves Betty agape on the porch, exchanges his credit card at the door for two pizzas and an enormous salad, then grabs two more beers before heading back out.

She’s half-covered now, her legs under the blanket, but alarmingly, her eyes are also filled with tears. “I’m so sorry,” she says in a partial whisper, her voice choked enough to make Jughead’s own throat tighten. “I’m ruining everything.”

 _“Hey,”_ Jughead interjects, somewhat forcefully. He sets the pizzas down and grabs her hands. “You’re not ruining anything.”

“I am,” Betty nods, tugging one of her hands away from his so that she can swipe at the tears that are about to fall. “First I made Trev waste all those years of his life on me, then I failed at _intentional motherhood,_ Jug, I _paid_ someone to inseminate me and it still didn’t work, and now - now I’m forcing loneliness on-”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” Jughead reaches up and gingerly brushes the wetness from her other cheek. “I’m not lonely. I mean, if I am, it’s by choice. But I’m not. I have you, and that’s all I’ve - I have you.” He pats her knee awkwardly, the soft rub of flannel delicate against his palm. “Plus, you haven’t failed at _anything._ It’s a procedure with an absurdly low rate of success for how much better at it doctors should be by now. Okay?”

Betty’s lower lip trembles a little, but she nods.

He smiles at her. “And look, I _know_ there are no hard feelings between you and Trev, but trust me, Betty, the years he got to spend with you are going to be the best of that dude’s entire life. He should be thanking you.”

“Jughead,” Betty chides gently, her cheeks flushing.

“You graced him with your presence,” he comments, reaching for one of the pizza boxes. “Just like this pizza has graced us.”

She bites her lip, an unreadable expression on her face. Then finally, she jokes, “We are truly honoured. One nation, under pizza.”

“Indivisible, with mushrooms and pepperoni for all,” Jughead finishes seriously. They each take a slice, and while Betty bites into hers demurely, he inhales at least sixty-five percent of it in one go.

“Your appetite knows no bounds, Jug,” Betty teases, sniffing away the last of her tears and crossing her legs beneath the blanket. “Neither does your metabolism, apparently, unless you’ve been hiding a gym membership in that messenger bag of yours.”

He raises an eyebrow, surprised. He _has_ sort of filled out in recent years - despite its many, many annoyances, living with Reggie did also have its upsides - but Jughead hadn’t thought that Betty noticed. “Not since Reggie moved out,” he tells her, “but y’know. I walk everywhere.”

Betty doesn’t respond except to make a quiet _hmm_ noise, then digs in to another slice of pizza.

.  
.  
.  
.  
.

 

As night falls, the leftover pizza moves to the fridge, more beers pile up on the tables that flank the swing, and Betty inches closer to Jughead.

He’s not sure if she knows what she’s doing; certainly, if he were literally anybody else, Jughead would think she was flirting. But since it’s _him,_ somebody that over two decades of platonic friendship has proven to be Not For Her, he’s confused. And slightly concerned. Or, he would be, if he hadn’t had so many beers.

The actual number is embarrassingly low for a man in his late twenties, but because he’s sober the vast majority of the time, it doesn’t take much to push him into slightly-drunk territory. Jughead is painfully self-aware almost always, so much so that he knows he wouldn’t ever let himself do anything truly stupid. At the same time, he’s lost just enough of his inhibitions that he’s permitted his hands to wander a bit further than they ever normally would with a woman he wasn’t explicitly dating.

And _especially_ with Betty.

She’s fully cuddled against his side now, her legs tucked to one side with those pink toes pointed away from him. One beer ago, Betty’s forearm had found its way onto Jughead’s thigh, her palm flattened just above his knee. One of his arms is around her waist, his hand tucked under the blanket and his fingers dangerously close to a sliver of exposed skin on her abdomen. She leans further into him, her free hand now holding a glass of wine, and sighs.

“Sometimes I feel like I’ll never meet anyone that will give me what Cheryl and Veronica have,” she tells the night air. Her head turns to the side, her hair brushing his chin. “Do you ever feel like that?”

 _All the time,_ he wants to reply. _All the time because I can’t have you._

“Sure,” he says instead.

“That’s partly why I want a baby so badly,” Betty continues, her quiet voice still piercing in the relative stillness. “Someone to love unconditionally and who will love me the same way.”

Jughead’s eyes close momentarily. “I get that.”

“But you’re right, you know. It should be better by now, the odds. The technology isn’t exactly new.”

Jughead shrugs. “Yeah, but our bodies haven’t evolved to be more effective,” he points out. “And that’s the problem. I mean, if you think about it, it’s crazy that humans even have insemination and IVF and all that as options to begin with. For millennia, our ancestors just had to try the old fashioned way … and hope for the best.”

Betty laughs softly. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”

His hand slips beneath her shirt before he can stop it. His palm stretches across her abdomen and his thumb gently rests at the base of her ribcage. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he adds, his eyes drawn to the neckline of her shirt.

She turns, slightly, and meets his eyes. “No,” she echoes, then she kisses him.

Kissing Betty is a bit like being in the Twilight Zone: hazy, distant, yet somehow sharp and immediate all at the same time. He turns her even further to face him, dragging her legs across his knee, and with every bit of willpower in his body, pulls back from the kiss.

“You’re good at that,” she blurts, a bit breathless.

He grins. “I-”

“Do it again,” Betty demands, and then he’s back in, his lips pressed to hers, her tongue seeking entrance, his hand rising beneath her shirt. He stills it on her ribcage so that he can focus on dragging his mouth from hers, moving it down to her pulse point and then across her collarbone.

He can’t believe it, still - he’s making out with _Betty,_ the only girl that’s ever really occupied any significant place in his heart, his best friend, to whom he’s-

 _“Juggie,”_ she gasps, pulling at his hair and then at his shirt, the fabric bunching over his shoulders until he drags himself away just long enough for her to remove it completely. Her fingers fall down his chest, green eyes tracing their path, and still on his abdomen. He’s not Archie, but his physique has definitely been worse than it is now; still, he fights the urge to flex. “When did you -”

“You’re beautiful,” Jughead interrupts, his brain not clear enough to wait for the compliment. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Betts. I should have told you before.”

Betty looks up, breaking her fixation on his body, and parts her lips. “Before when?” she asks.

He shakes his head, unable to give her an answer that doesn’t make him seem like a pathetic asshole. He kisses her instead, leaning in and pulling her toward him at the same time, and doesn’t realize that she’s in his lap until she tries to straddle his thighs and they nearly fall off the swing.

Betty giggles, pulling back from him, and he thinks: _that’s it. It’s over._ But even a few moments of pure bliss, he supposes, are better than none at all.

She gets to her feet, not bothering to straighten her disheveled shirt, and holds her hand out. “Come on.”

Jughead blinks slowly. “What?”

She grins and does a half-dance toward him, grasping both of his hands in hers and pulling him to his feet. Betty winds his arms around her from behind, relaxing into his chest, then turns and presses her face into his bicep. “Let’s try it,” she breathes, lifting one of his hands to her chest.

On instinct, he cups her breast, but he’s still confused. “Try … what?” he asks, pushing his fingertips against her nipple.

“The old-fashioned way,” she answers, twisting in his arms to face him. Her eyes seem to be searching his face, but he doesn’t know what she’s looking for. Betty swallows, and adds, “Or practice, or … whatever.”

“Practice,” Jughead echoes, his cloudy mind clearing slightly. And then: _“Oh._ God, baby, _yes-”_

The word isn’t even fully out of his mouth before Betty’s lips are silencing him and her fingers are digging into his shoulders. Her kiss is hard, fervent - bruising, even - and while he knows that this is probably just the alcohol, that if she were sober and he were sober she wouldn’t be bothering, he also knows by the desperation in her touch that she _needs_ this, needs … him.

And so he’ll be hers tonight, as he’s been for the last twenty-plus years, whether she knows it or not.

He slides his hands to just beneath her ass and lifts her, prompting a small jump; her legs wrap around his waist, her arms push across his back, and they go inside.

 

 

tbc.


	5. Chapter 5

Waking up to the sight of Jughead’s face half-hidden in the pillow on the other side of the bed is surprising, to say the least. Betty definitely did _not_ expect their weekend to take this particular turn; even as it was happening, as his fingers were peeling down the straps of her tank top and his lips were on her shoulder, even as her own thumbs hooked beneath the waistband of his boxers, she couldn’t quite believe she was falling into bed with Jughead Jones. Her feelings about what happened are complex and coloured with a bit of panic, but the experience itself - that was good.

It was, in fact, good twice.

She’s only ever been with Trev, until now, and sex with Jughead was - of course - different, but it’s the _ways_ in which it was different that her mind has acknowledged but can’t seem to articulate, not even within the stream of her own thoughts. The gasp-groan sort of sound that Jughead made when he was buried inside her, _oh Jesus fuck Betts yes_ , like she’d made his wildest dreams come true - it’d pulled a high, needy sound from her own throat, and when his mouth crashed against hers, her chest felt warm and full.

She lets her eyes skim over his face for a moment, cataloguing the slight stubble on his cheeks and chin, the gentle flutter of his eyelashes, and the look of his mouth, lips a little chapped from kissing. From kissing _her_.

With slow, careful movements, she lifts the duvet off of her body, sits up, and sets her feet on the floor. She tiptoes out of the bedroom in her panties and Jughead’s t-shirt from the day before, and into the bathroom, where she tugs down the shirt’s neckline to investigate why her skin feels tender and finds a red splotch of a mark on one of her breasts in the shape of Jughead’s mouth.

After she’s peed, brushed her teeth, and attempted to tame her hair (the ruthless combination of beach-messy and sex-messy making the task nearly impossible), she goes into the kitchen and makes a cup of the instant coffee they purchased on the way into town. She steps back into her shorts from the previous night, which ended up discarded on the living room floor, and then slips out onto the porch again.

It’s another beautiful day, the sun already shining. Betty sits down on the porch swing and tugs the blanket over her lap, cupping her mug in both hands and gazing out toward the ocean as she tries to put her thoughts in order.

 _How do you feel?_ she asks herself. The first word that springs to mind is _happy_ , which definitely isn’t a bad thing, but she knows it’s not that simple. Was last night a one-time, summer-getaway thing? Or was it more - is it worth pursuing a relationship? Does Jughead _want_ to pursue a relationship? Has she been out of the dating game for so long that she’s misreading the situation and overthinking everything?

She’s not opposed to trying to date Jughead. It’s an odd thing to even think, given that it involves moving him from the _best friend_ compartment of her mind over to the _romantic prospects_ one, but the fact that it’s an odd thought doesn’t make it an unappealing one. She can see several ways that things might work out well: they’re both sort of homebodies, they’ve already got a great rhythm to their relationship as roommates, he knows about her crazy mother and her family issues, she now has the knowledge that he’s good in bed, and he’s so attentive and aware of her and what she might need. If she wants him to be her boyfriend, he could be a wonderful one.

The prospective of how good things could be does not, however, erase her fear of how bad they could get. If they get together and their relationship falls apart, she’ll lose so much. She’ll lose more than she lost with Trev, even. Jughead is in her very earliest memories. He means the world to her. If their relationship were to go up in flames, she’d lose a close friend she’s had for virtually her entire life. And they’d have to continue co-existing in the same space, awkwardly, until she found somewhere else to live. She doesn’t think she could bear it.

But she’d seem them, last night: the sparks she hadn’t previously thought existed between them. They’d crackled along her skin like electricity when Jughead touched her, and she saw them behind her eyelids in the shape of stars.

Betty takes a long drink from her cup of coffee and admits to herself that she’s not going to figure this out today. She needs to talk things over with Jughead, see where _his_ head is, and then revisit her own heart. And maybe - _maybe_ \- if it’s absolutely necessary, she’ll talk to Veronica.

She’d already been with Trev when she met Veronica in college, so they’ve never had a conversation about something new, romantically, on Betty’s end. She imagines Veronica would be _thrilled_ to talk about her sex and/or dating life for hours; she used to feel, sometimes, like Veronica thought she was living, day to day, in an episode of _Sex and the City._ She smiles to herself as she imagines Veronica’s litany of questions: _Were you safe? Was it good? How many times did you… ?_

Fingers tightening suddenly around her mug, Betty’s brain flits back to the first question. _Were you safe?_

No. No, they weren’t.

Neither of them had expected this to happen, so neither of them had condoms. They’d both had too much to drink to drive anywhere, and they’d spent a couple moments breathing hard, trying to reconcile the fact that it wasn’t going to happen, and Betty’s mind had supplied alternative ways they could get each other off (one of which Jughead had already used with _considerable_ success), but her body was so desperate for his that she’d breathed _screw it_ into a kiss and he gripped her hip so hard it almost hurt.

Jughead pulled out when he came, but she knows that’s not foolproof. And she’s no longer on the pill; her eggs are as hospitable to sperm as she could possibly make them.

“Crap,” she says softly, biting her bottom lip.

She looks out at the water for a few minutes, watching the waves lap at the shore. She turns away when she hears a soft, “Hey,” her eyes falling on Jughead, who's just stepped out onto the porch.

“Hi,” she says quietly, offering him a little smile.

“Look, Betts,” he says on a sigh, a slight slump to his shoulders. “If you regret what happened last night, I get it. I hope you don’t feel like I took advantage of you, that was never my - ”

“No,” she interrupts, her smile gone. “No, Jug, I don’t think that.”

“Okay, good,” he says on another sigh. “Anyway, we never have to speak of it again. I just don’t want us to - ”

She interrupts him again. “Jughead, I don’t regret it.” She looks down into her coffee for a beat and then back up at him, through her lashes. “Not at all.”

He exhales slowly, but it’s not quite a sigh this time. “That’s...good,” he says quietly. “Sorry for assuming.” He takes a few steps, moving closer to her. “You just look so… serious.”

Betty tucks the blanket more firmly around her legs, clearing off the other side of the swing, a wordless invitation for him to come and sit. He does, leaving about a foot of space between them.

“I was thinking about birth control,” she says softly. “And how I’m… not on it.”

His eyes widen briefly. “Right,” he says. “Right.”

“I should probably pick up the morning-after pill today.” The last word comes out a little hoarse, and she coughs to clear her throat.

Jughead’s silent for a long moment. He clasps his hands and weaves his fingers together, pressing down on the knuckles of his left hand with the fingers of his right, and then the knuckles of his right hand with the fingers of his left, repeating the pattern several times in a gesture that appears meditative.

“That’s… a strange thing for a woman who’s trying to get pregnant to do,” he finally says.

“It is,” Betty agrees. “But…” She lifts her shoulders in a small shrug. “I didn’t have a profile that described a guy with hair that’s always a little messy and very nice blue eyes, kinder than he wants you to believe, smarter than he’d ever admit, great genes… ” She trails off, glancing over at the hands he’s still wringing and trying to suppress the realization that if she _did_ have such a profile, she probably would’ve chosen the donor it described.

“No,” Jughead says in a low voice. “You didn’t.” He shifts on the swing, making it move a bit. “But if you get pregnant from what happened between us last night, then it’ll be like you did.”

She blinks over at him, her eyes searching his face. “What?”

“You want a baby. I don’t want you to feel like you have to… take measures to prevent yourself from potentially being pregnant, just because of me.”

“ _Really?_ ” she breathes, unable to keep a degree of astonishment out of her voice. “You’d be okay with that?”

“You want a baby,” he says again.

“Yes, but - this is different, this isn’t… anonymous.” She rolls her lips together. “You’re a great baby-daddy candidate, Jug. But you’re also my friend, and my roommate, and maybe…” She’s not quite sure what they are after the past twenty-four hours. “You’d be alright with knowing that I was going to have your kid?”

“I’d trust you with my sperm over anyone else, Betts,” Jughead says, his voice just a touch wry. “Besides, it’s looking more and more doubtful that I’ll actually end up procreating with a partner.”

“Don’t say that,” she protests automatically, and Jughead gives her a look like _let’s stay on the topic at hand._ She swallows. “You’re saying you’d… be my sperm donor, basically.”

“Basically.” His eyes dart down to her abdomen, hidden beneath his t-shirt. “If I knocked you up.”

Betty looks down, too, imagining her belly rounded and pushing out against the fabric of the shirt, imagining carrying his baby. The yearning she feels is like a jolt through her whole body.

“And what if you didn’t?” she asks, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Hm?” Jughead asks, leaning in close to hear her better.

She looks up at him, meeting his eyes, her lips trembling just a little as she asks, “What if you didn’t get me pregnant? Would you be willing to try again? Would you… really be my sperm donor?”

Confusion flickers briefly across his face, followed by something else she can’t name. “You want me to… give a specimen, or whatever?”

“You could do that,” Betty says with a nod. “Or… ” She bites the corner of her bottom lip, her eyes dropping from his face and roaming over his body.

“Oh,” Jughead says. In just that single syllable, she can hear that his voice has gone a bit gruff.

“You can say no, Juggie,” she tells him. “I won’t be upset, I swear - I know this is a really big thing to ask of you.”

He lifts his hand to her cheek. Slowly, he pushes her hair back behind her ear, and then runs the pads of his fingers along the line of her jaw. Betty forgets to breathe.

“Let me think about it,” he says.

She nods, sucking in air. “Of course.”

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They spend another couple hours on the beach, Jughead’s nose buried in his book while Betty soaks up the sun on her towel. She decides, after a bit, that it might be good to give him some space to think, so she goes for a swim by herself. When she returns to the shore, water dripping from her hair, she can feel his eyes following her until she’s a couple feet away, at which points he once again appears to be engrossed in his novel. She doesn’t know what it means, that long, lingering look; it gives her nervous butterflies.

Back at the cottage, she showers and then makes them sandwiches while Jughead takes his turn in the bathroom. Things aren’t quite awkward between them, but their conversation has felt a little stilted, the heaviness of her earlier request still hovering between them. After all that worrying about what might happen to their friendship if they dated, she’s beginning to feel that she’s wrecked their friendship with an even more dramatic proposition. Jughead makes quick work of his sandwich after his shower, but Betty picks at hers, the pit of anxiety in her stomach overruling her appetite.

“Should we get ice cream before we go?” she asks after she abandons her half-eaten lunch and starts tidying up the kitchen. “I saw a place that looked - ”

Jughead’s hand, light on her waist, puts a stop to her sentence. “Betty,” he says.

His eyes are so serious that it scares her. She shakes her head, annoyed with herself - angry, even - and there are apologies on the tip of her tongue, but Jughead speaks before she can.

He says, “Yes.” When she looks at him in bewilderment, not having expected that word to come out of his mouth, he clarifies, “I’ll do it.”

Betty’s lips part in surprise. “You - you will?”

“Yes.”

“Jughead, you can take more time,” she says, “As much as you want, you don’t need to - ”

His mouth lands on hers. The kiss is soft and tender, a gentle thing that barely asks for anything in return. Both of his hands press into the small of her back, forcing her to stumble closer until her body is pressed right against his. She can feel that he’s already a little hard, and it makes her breath catch. She lifts both of her own hands to his cheeks and holds his face as she lets the kiss deepen, their mouths opening and tongues brushing.

He walks her backward very slowly, their feet shuffling against the sandy hardwood floor, through the kitchen and across the living room and into the doorway of the bedroom. The backs of her knees hit the mattress, and in what feels like half a second she finds herself on her back on the bed as Jughead settles his body over hers. She hooks her legs up around his hips and he slides a hand beneath her sundress, carressing her skin.

“Kiss me,” she murmurs, and he does, his nose nudging against hers before their lips meet. It isn’t long before his mouth moves to her neck, and then to her breasts, over her dress, and her belly, and then he’s pushing her dress aside and pulling her underwear off and she props herself up a little on her elbows as she breathes, “Oh, Jug, you don’t have to. We can just… ” She doesn’t want him to feel like the non-baby-making parts of sex are a compulsory part of this, whatever _this_ is.

“Betts,” he murmurs against the inside of her thigh, his teeth grazing her skin. “I say this with love, but shut up.”

She half-laughs, half-sighs as she settles back against the mattress, and she means to listen to him, she really does, but it’s only a moment later that he’s got her whimpering his name.

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t tell Archie.

It’s a weird step back in their friendship, which is a bond that’s lasted decades and lived through many a girlfriend on Archie’s side and even a few on Jughead’s, despite his ever-present feelings for their _other_ best friend. Jughead’s silence on this, the most intimate of favours that a person could ever provide someone else, feels slightly like a betrayal. He’s already spent more than a few sleepless nights feeling guilty over it. But at the same time, telling Archie feels … redundant.

Because the fact is that he knows exactly what Archie would do: lose his mind in any number of ways, and then potentially stage some kind of an intervention to convince Jughead of the flaws in this very _not-_ thorough _not-_ plan. But that’s not necessary; Jughead already _knows_ that this is a bad idea. A _tremendously_ bad idea, the worst one that’s ever been heard, full stop. He is going to temporarily have a _lot_ of sex with the woman he’s been in love with for years and years, publicly under the auspices of being a free sperm donor, while privately trying very, very hard not to completely destroy himself.

It’s difficult; what he’s agreed to start doing with Betty is definitely crossing any kind of line that he’d ever constructed to protect his own heart, but at the same time, Jughead can’t fathom having said anything other than “yes”. The look on Betty’s face and the sound of her voice when she’d mentioned needing to get emergency contraception had been enough to convince him, even if he’d taken a couple of extra hours afterward to bargain with himself anyway. This is the one thing that she wants more than anything else in the world, her ultimate, truest dream. There was no way that he could ever deny her that.

They’d slept together again just before leaving Montauk, this time with Jughead intentionally not pulling out, and then on the drive home had devised a schedule of sorts. Betty has a series of calendars and apps on her phone that allegedly tell her everything she - they - need to know about ovulation and timing. She’s about to start her period, which based on their cohabitation so far he’s already estimated to last about four or five days, typically, and then about two weeks after her period starts, she will ovulate.

Five days prior to _that_ is something that she tells him is called “the fertile window”; if Jughead hadn’t known specifically that that term referred to the optimal time for them to have sex, he’d have already been a little bored by this point. The information is slightly overwhelming, but it also all seems very mechanical. Which, he quickly realizes, is the point: this is about procreation, not love.

It’s not _supposed_ to be romantic, but Jughead tries anyway.

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Betty gets her period the day after they return to the city from Montauk. Jughead buys her chocolate from the corner bodega on the way home from work and then spends the next four hours with his face in his laptop, trying to ignore the stretch of her tank top across what he now definitively knows to be perfect breasts.

They don’t kiss on the days in-between. She talks to him about ordinary things - about her parents, about someone she’d seen on the subway, about work. In turn, he tells her about the side-project he’s working on for his consultancy company and gives her the run-down on his newest clients, a sexual assault crisis and advocacy centre in the Bronx.

On the last day of her period, Betty tells him about how one of her first-graders brought dandelions for a classmate. There is a clear _aww-shucks_ flush on her cheeks, and the next day Jughead comes home with a simple bouquet of daisies.

She gives him a look and tells him, “Jug, you really don’t have to do this.”

He shrugs and pulls his beanie off without replying immediately. He’d spotted the flowers at a stand a few blocks from their apartment and had been unable to resist. She’s the kind of girl who deserves flowers, he figures, especially before sex - but mainly, it’s because he can’t fathom any kind of world where someone sleeping with Betty Cooper should be anything other than fucking _honoured_ to even breathe the same air, let alone be permitted to be inside her for a time, however brief.

Plus, he knows the ins and outs of her parental angst. It’s one of the hallmarks of their bond; after all, he has a fair share of his own. But whereas his parents are a slightly more classic tale of too-young-too-much-too-fast, the Coopers have the honour of being, at the same time, the most overbearing and under-committed parents he’s ever met. They'd finally divorced years prior, but for much of Jughead's life it had seemed like they were together out of obligation or convenience, not love, and Jughead knows that it bothers Betty. He wants her to be able to tell her child that his or her parents respected each other, cared for each other, and that he or she was made out of nothing but love, however platonic.

Out loud, Jughead says, “When you look back, I want you to have a good memory, Betts.”

Her eyes look a little shiny when they meet his, but she nods with a small smile, and accepts the flowers. She places them in a vase from the kitchen, mixes the plant food and water mixture into the bottom, and sets the bouquet on their tiny kitchen table.

Then she walks over to him, places her palm on his cheek, and kisses him.

This time, sex happens a bit less smoothly. In his haste to remove it, Jughead gets a button from Betty’s cardigan hooked on one of her earrings; after they pause to rectify the situation, Betty accidentally steps on his foot with one of her heels. She kicks the shoes off and apologizes profusely - “I’m so sorry, Juggie, _so_ sorry” - and then bends down to inspect beneath his sock. The image of her on her knees is too powerful for Jughead’s mind to push past, and by the time she stands (apparently satisfied that he’ll live to see another day), he’s already half-hard.

They make it down the hallway, pausing briefly by the bathroom door so that Betty can push Jughead’s shirt off his shoulders, then come to stand in front of the thin wall that separates their bedrooms.

“Yours or mine?” Jughead asks, dragging the zipper of Betty’s dress down her back.

She tugs him into hers after a brief moment of thought. “We can mess up my bed,” she decides. “Then you don’t have to do any cleaning, or-”

“Betty, stop,” he interrupts, slipping the straps of her dress from her shoulders and watching as the material pools at her feet. His gaze traces the line of her legs up to simple white underwear, then past them to her matching bra and vaguely nervous eyes. “Believe me, this isn’t a chore.”

Betty exhales, just slightly, then reaches up and shakes her hair out of her ponytail. She gives a half-nod, squares her shoulders, and demands, “Take off your pants.”

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They sleep together about once a day until they reach the fertile window, and then it becomes feverish. Betty slips into his bed at five-thirty in the morning, her hands sliding beneath his undershirt, and they make it one before separating to get ready for work. She pecks his lips on the way out the door, and Jughead is so preoccupied with the casual domesticity of the action that he nearly misses his train.

Jughead spends the day trying (and failing) not to think about having sex with his best friend-turned-roommate. He focuses desperately on writing strategies to expand his client organization’s donor base, but by lunchtime his hands burn with the feeling of her skin underneath them, and he has to put headphones in to drown out the sound of her airy gasps of pleasure. He’s jittery all the way home, but as soon as he walks in the door after work, she’s on him.

They fuck again, this time bent over the couch in the living room with her hands braced against the well-worn cushions and her skirt flipped up over her back. Afterward, she puts sweatpants on, and they make dinner together with a strange degree of forced normalcy. Jughead doesn’t want it to feel transactional, but he knows it can’t feel _real,_ either, and this feels like some kind of compromise. Normally, he would probably just stay in his boxers, but there’s a level of intimacy there that feels inappropriate for them, so he tugs his jeans back on.

Betty makes homemade tacos, then Jughead puts on _Game of Thrones_ and they rewatch “Battle of the Bastards”. Betty seems particularly keen on Jon Snow, and when he points this out, she actually blushes.

“He’s handsome, sue me,” she mutters, like an excuse. “It’s the hair, and the dark eyes.”

Jughead takes mental stock of himself. He’s not exactly Jon Snow; tall, blue-eyed, and definitely on the skinnier side in comparison. “Well, I can’t make any promises about eye colour, but if the baby gets my hair, it might have half a chance of being a little Jon Snow-esque.”

Betty turns on the couch beside him. She reaches a hand up to his hair, smiling, and combs her fingers through. “I like your hair,” she comments. “But I like your eyes, too. The baby will be lucky either way.”

“You can say that again,” he says, leaning his head into her touch. “It’s going to have you as a mom. That’s as lucky as you can get.”

She swallows and shakes her head at him, but it’s less of a denial and more of a sheepish embarrassment. “Jug,” she chastises, biting back her smile. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be buttering _you_ up.”

Jughead rolls his eyes and reaches for her, biting his own lip as she climbs into his lap. “Do we have to have the ‘this is not a chore’ conversation again?” he chides, lifting her blouse to reveal a lacy bra in a deep blue colour. It’s not one he’s seen before; he comments as much to Betty, saying, “New bra?”

“You haven’t seen my entire lingerie collection, Jones,” she replies, reaching behind herself to unhook it.

“Yet,” he jokes, slipping his hands onto her breasts as soon as they’re freed. He strokes his thumbs across her nipples, exhaling with satisfaction at the way it makes her eyelids flutter, and leans in to press his mouth to them.

“Hang on,” Betty chants, wiggling away from him briefly to slip her sweatpants off. “Is it easier if we go to the bedroom?”

Jughead shakes his head and hastily pulls both his jeans and boxers down. “No,” he cuts in, a bit more forcefully than he’d intended. “Come back where you were, here-”

Betty obeys, straddling his lap and kissing him again before positioning him at her entrance and sinking down, slowly. He lets out a string of expletives at _that feeling_ \- he’s going to die with this in his memory, what a fucking lucky bastard he is - but the spell is slightly broken by Betty’s soft chuckle.

“You like me on top,” she observes with a smile, holding onto his shoulders as they begin to move.

Jughead grips her hips. “It’s a hell of a view.”

“Didn’t know - _ah!_ \- that you were so visual.”

He rests his face in her chest for a long moment, relishing in the impossibly soft skin against his cheek. Somehow, it’s better than he’s ever dreamed. _She’s_ better.

“Not really,” Jughead says, which is true. He’s a writer, not an artist, though he supposes that some observational capacity must overlap. He leans her backward slightly, sliding one hand from her hip to her lower back for support, and thrusts upward at a higher angle. She cries out at the sensation, drops one hand to his knee beside her ankle, and he does it again.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Betty gasps, “Jughead, _yes_ -”

He repeats the move over and over, fixing his eyes on the rhythmic bounce of her breasts, and then pulls her deep and sucks a bruise into the hollow of her throat. “I’m anything for you, Betty,” he mutters against her skin.

He rakes his teeth over her collarbone, then drops a hand into the minute space between them. Seconds later, as she’s mewling, he says it again, _needs_ to, and hopes she doesn’t remember.

_“Anything.”_

 

 

tbc.


	6. Chapter 6

Music plays over the end credits of _Game of Thrones_ and Jughead sighs into Betty’s neck, his body a warm weight over hers. “That was a good one,” he murmurs.

She smiles. “The episode or the sex?”

His lips find the juncture of her neck and jawline; the kiss he presses there makes her sigh in contentment. “I’ve gotta be honest. I wasn’t watching the episode.”

Betty laughs and slips her fingers into his hair, tugging lightly, affectionately, on messy strands. “Should we start it again?”

Jughead fits his hand into the curve of her waist, his thumb smoothing along her bare skin. “We’ve seen it before.” He shifts to the side so that she’s not bearing as much of his weight, and Betty shifts around too, pulling each side of her unbuttoned periwinkle blue blouse over her body again. It’s so wrinkled she’ll probably have to get it drycleaned.

“I didn’t think we’d do that today,” he adds after she’s finished trying to smooth out the shirt’s rumpled collar.

She scrunches up her nose. “It’s weird that you’re so in tune to my cycle.”

“It’s my job,” he says. “Or… my unpaid internship.”

That makes her smile. He’s been making her smile a lot lately. Once or twice, she’s been in the bathroom washing her hands and has glanced up into the mirror and seen that her lips are still curled upward. Veronica commented, with some suspicion, that she looks like she’s glowing, but Betty’s not pregnant, just happy. She’s forcing herself to be pragmatic on the topic of procreation - some people try for _years_ to get pregnant, she knows that - but a pretty sheen of optimism has settled over the rest of her life. This, she thinks, is the feeling she was searching for when she made the decision not to marry Trev; the feeling that the future is wide open, full of possibilities, not predetermined by a script.

“Betts?” Jughead asks. When she looks into his face she sees that the hazy, post-sex happiness is fading from his eyes and a bit of concern is sneaking in.

She touches his cheek. “It doesn’t mean anything. Bodies aren’t that predictable when they’re not regulated by hormones. But I know I’m probably not pregnant. And I’m okay with it.”

He nods. “We’ll just keep trying.”

“Look at you, taking one for the team,” she says wryly; she can feel him growing hard again against her hip.

“I’m a very collaborative person,” he agrees, his gaze focused on her mouth.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. It’s a self-conscious gesture, not one that’s meant to be enticing, but the way his eyes go dark makes her shiver anyway. “Seriously, Jughead,” she murmurs. “Thank y - ”

He cuts her off by pressing his index finger lightly against her mouth. “You’ve been thanking me for months, d’you know that? First for offering you the other bedroom, then for not thinking the baby plan was crazy, then for becoming an active participant in the baby plan… ”

She feels her cheeks heat up a little. “I just - I’m grateful for all of that, Juggie.”

“I know.” He moves over her again and presses his hips down into hers. Betty keens; she’s still sensitive and he feels so good. “When you get pregnant,” he says, his breath hot against her cheek. “I don’t want you to thank me.”

“Jug,” she sighs, clutching at her back, her nails digging lightly into his skin.

“I mean it, baby,” he says softly, tugging at her earlobe with his teeth. “You’ve thanked me enough.”

“No - ”

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, and kisses her hard. “Promise me.”

“Jughead,” she whines, pushing her hips up against his.

He groans at the feeling, but insists. “Promise, Betty.”

“I promise,” she murmurs distractedly. “Juggie, please - ”

“Shh,” he soothes, his lips ghosting over hers as he moves into her. Her eyes flutter shut and she feels his forehead press against hers as they find their rhythm together.

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Betty expects her period to arrive the next day, so she doesn’t wear her favourite white dress despite the heat, and tucks tampons into her purse when she goes into work; in the summer, she teaches a half-day course for students who need a little extra help in order to make it to the next grade in the fall.

The tampons stay in her purse all day. The same is true for the next day, and the next. She doesn’t dwell on it, her days filling up with other concerns: one of her students has behavioural problems and she has a two-hour meeting with the parents and the school principal; her sister calls to say she’s met a guy she really likes and they spend an evening giggling over the phone; she and Jughead go see the latest _Star Wars_ movie and bicker playfully about whether or not the symbolism was heavy handed on the way home.

On Saturday, they go for their usual grocery run, and Betty goes to a yoga class in the afternoon. She skips out on a glass of wine with the Thai food they order in the evening, opting for water instead. She has a hard time falling asleep that night, what-ifs lingering in the back of her mind.

She wakes up early on Sunday and decides that it’s time. She pees on one of her more expensive, early-detection, clear-reading pregnancy tests and sets a timer on her phone, and then realizes that she doesn’t really want to look at the results, whatever they might be, on her own.

She leaves the bathroom and goes into the hall, where she opens Jughead’s bedroom door a crack and peeks inside. He’s sound asleep in bed, blankets pooled around his waist, chest bare. She tiptoes over to the bed, sits down carefully on the edge of the mattress, and places a hand on his arm.

“Jug,” she says.

He stirs very slowly, scrunching up his face and rubbing at his eyes before he opens them. “Betts,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse from sleep. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” She nods. “I just took a pregnancy test.”

Jughead sits up, abruptly wide awake. “What did it say?”

“I didn’t look yet,” she says quietly. “I was hoping maybe… you’d do it with me.”

“Yeah,” he says, stifling a yawn. “Yeah, of course.” He finds her hand with his own and squeezes. “Are you nervous?”

Betty nods again and takes a deep breath. “But it’s like you said. If it’s negative, we just keep trying.”

“Exactly.” He lifts his hand to the back of her head, tilting her forward so that he can kiss her forehead. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

They get up, Jughead grabbing a t-shirt and tugging it on over his head, and go into the bathroom together. The pregnancy test, re-capped, is sitting on top of the toilet tank. Betty’s phone, which is sitting on the counter, is beeping to announce that her timer’s countdown is complete. She silences it and glances at Jughead. She can feel the apprehension on her face.

“Whatever it says, it’s okay,” he says steadily.

She nods and grabs onto his right hand with her left, lacing their fingers together. With her other hand, she reaches out and picks up the test, prepared to read _Not Pregnant_ , as she has several times before.

That’s not what it says.

The test says _Pregnant_ , and in the little space before the word, where Betty is accustomed to seeing _Not_ , there’s nothing. It’s so startling that her mind goes blank for a moment, her thoughts jolted back only when Jughead breathes, “Holy shit.”

Betty’s mouth opens, but words don’t come out right away. “It’s - ” She swallows, and looks over at Jughead. “It’s positive?”

He looks at the stunned expression on her face and makes a sound akin to laughter. “Yeah,” he says. “Betty, you’re pregnant.”

She’s speechless for another moment, looking back at the test, and then she whispers. “Oh my god.” She disentangles her hand from his to press it over her mouth. Jughead puts a hand to her back and rubs gently.

“You’re going to have a baby,” he says softly after he’s given her a quiet moment to digest what’s happening.

“Jug, oh my god,” she murmurs, turning to him. “I - ” He’d asked her not to thank him, but she can’t figure out what else to say, so she just wraps her arms around him tightly. Tears sting at her eyes as she says, “Oh my god,” again, and Jughead lifts her up a little as he returns her embrace. She wraps her legs around his waist instinctively, and he holds her for a moment as tears slip down her cheeks and she smiles into his neck, the pregnancy test still clutched in her hand.

He sets her down gently and says, “Aw, Betts,” quietly when he sees her tears, using his thumbs to wipe at the tracks they've left on her cheeks.

“It’s - ” She waves a hand at her face. “I’m happy.” She shakes her head in amazement. “You should be a sperm donor. For real.”

He chuckles, smoothing a hand up and down her arm. “I don’t know how many kids need to be walking around with my genes.”

“This is the most amazing thing anyone’s ever done for me,” she tells him sincerely. She gives him another hug. “I love you.”

His arms are tight around her and his voice is very soft as he says, into her hair, “I love you, too.”

“I’m pregnant,” she says as they pull apart, testing it out.

“Yeah.” He touches a hand tentatively to her flat stomach over her sleep shirt, and then pulls it away as though just realizing what he’s doing. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says. _It’s your baby too,_ she almost adds, but that isn’t quite true, not in this arrangement. She presses her own palm against her belly, hardly able to believe that there are the beginnings of a person somewhere beneath her hand.

“I don’t even know what pregnant people are supposed to do,” Jughead says. “Should you lay down, or something?”

“No,” she says on a little laugh. “No, I’m fine. Tomorrow I’ll call and make a doctor’s appointment, and… start putting feelers out, apartment-wise. I should move out when - when the baby’s born.” It feels so strange, in the best possible way, to say those words. “You won’t want to wake up to the sound of screaming every couple hours.”

“No,” he says, his voice so low she almost doesn’t hear him. “No, you should stay.” His fingers brush over her hand, skimming over her knuckles. “Both of you.”

“Are you sure?”

He nods, meeting her eyes. “Yes.”

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She goes to the doctor on the following Thursday, has her pregnancy confirmed, is told to start taking prenatal vitamins, and schedules her next appointment. Afterward, she asks her Lyft driver to take her to Veronica’s on the Upper East Side rather than to Brooklyn. She sends Veronica a text to let her know she’s coming over and receives a happy face and a heart emoji in response.

She kisses Veronica’s cheek when she arrives and says, “Hey, handsome,” to Montgomery, who is on the floor on a soft blanket under his baby gym. She sits down next to him him and leans down to blow raspberries against his onesie-covered belly. “God, V,” she sighs as he squirms happily. “He’s growing so fast.”

“I know,” Veronica says with a sigh of her own, sitting down on the floor as well, leaning against the sofa. “Is that what inspired this impromptu visit of yours? You wanted to see him before he leaves for college?”

Betty smiles. “What’re you going to study, Monty? Are you going to get a degree in being downright adorable?”

“Don’t call him that,” Veronica sighs. “His name is _Montgomery._ ” She makes a face. “Archie sent us a Facebook message the other day wanting to know how _MJ_ is doing. MJ!” she repeats, clearly expecting Betty to have a more extreme reaction to this piece of news than her quiet laughter. “It’s like no one cares what we named our own child.”

“It’s just that Montgomery is a lot of name for such a small guy,” Betty says gently. “I mean, Montgomery Jason Blossom-Lodge is a mouthful, Veronica, you’ve got to admit that.”

“He’ll grow into it,” Veronica says, lifting her chin stubbornly.

Betty gives up with a fond shake of her head, watching Montgomery reach for one of the colourful rattles on his mobile.

“So,” Veronica says after a moment of companionable silence. “You’re pregnant, right?”

Betty’s eyes fly to her best friend’s face. “How did you - ”

“ _Please_ , B, you’ve been all… _shiny_ for a couple weeks now. I figured you might be following that rule about not telling anyone until you’re twelve weeks along, but it’s _me_ , Betty. We’re basically family.”

“We are,” Betty agrees. “I haven’t been keeping it from you. I only found out on Sunday, and I was just at the doctor.”

“Well, your glow started early, then,” Veronica says. “I _knew_ it.” She allows herself a few seconds to gloat, and then her expression softens considerably. “You’re going to be a mama.”

Betty can’t help her grin. “I am.”

Veronica reaches over and takes her hand. “I’m so happy for you, Betty. You’re going to be such a great mother, and I can’t wait to meet your violin-playing, outdoorsy little one.”

She bites the inside of her bottom lip. “Actually…” she says slowly.

Head tilted slightly, Veronica asks, “What?”

“Veronica… I’m going to tell you something, but you _cannot_ tell anyone else. I know you’ll tell Cheryl, but no telling Archie, or Josie, or Reggie, or _anyone._ ”

“Just because Reggie texts me every couple months asking if we’ve changed our minds about a threesome, that doesn’t mean I actually _talk_ to him,” Veronica says. “But fine, my lips will stay sealed. What is it?”

“I didn’t use the sperm donor,” Betty says softly. “After it didn’t work twice I was just feeling so… defeated, and I only had enough money to try it one or two more times before I’d _really_ have to dip into my savings. So I - so Jughead did me a favour.” She can’t quite look at Veronica when she says those last words, feeling anxious about the expression that will meet them.

Veronica is quiet for long enough that Betty chances a glance at her. She’s looking off to the side, incredulity written all over her face, and when she turns her gaze back to Betty she says, simply, “Betty Cooper, you are an idiot.”

Betty sighs. “I know. I know you think so. I know you think that - ”

“You’re telling me you had _sex_ with a man who has been in love with you since the fucking _sandbox_? Or, I’m sorry, _treehouse_ , in your particular adorable childhood memories.”

“Yes. But Veronica, it’s not - ”

“Betty, it _is_. Whatever you think it’s not, it is. You’re - ”

It’s Betty’s turn to cut in, her voice firm when she says, “Veronica, I know you really believe what you’re saying, and I know you’re saying it because you care, but I’m not having this conversation, okay? Jughead and I are adults, and we came to this decision on our own, and it’s fine. We’re fine.”

“Oh, B,” Veronica sighs, shaking her head.

“I’d never do something that I thought would hurt him,” Betty says. “Never. If I thought it was true, that he'd felt that way about me for all these years, then I wouldn’t have gone through with this.”

“Betty. I love you. You know that. I think you’re wonderful, and I’m lucky to have you in my life. But you can be so _blind_ sometimes. It’s like - your whole life, your mother told you the kind of girl, the kind of woman, that you were going to be, and you believed her. I mean, of course you did, she’s your mother. That’s the way you see yourself, all goody-two-shoes and demure and not - not _attractive_ , not _impactful_. You don’t see yourself the way other people do. I’m still not sure you see yourself the way _I_ see you. And you don’t see yourself through Jughead’s eyes.”

“It’s not _like_ that with us, V,” Betty insists quietly.

Veronica releases another sigh, but she nods. “Okay,” she murmurs. “Alright.” She gives Betty a smile that looks just a little sad. “Come on, mama-to-be. I’ll introduce you to the delightful world of the diaper change.”

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All the way home on the subway, Betty thinks about what Veronica said. She thought she’d broken out of the mould of being the perfect Cooper daughter in college. She thought she’d found other parts of herself, parts she hadn’t been able to explore under her mother’s roof. She thought that was the reason that she now only goes home at Christmas, the reason that she didn’t marry the boy who paid for her vanilla milkshakes and held her hand for a whole month before she feared that he’d never kiss her and made the first move herself. She’s different now; she knows herself and what she wants. And in that same vein, she must be able to know when someone wants _her_.

The smell of food greets her when she opens the apartment door: Jughead’s in the kitchen, cooking. “Hey,” he says when he spots her. “How was the appointment?”

“Good,” she says, dropping her keys in the bowl and hanging up her purse. “I’m officially making a human.”

He throws her a smile over his shoulder. “Congrats, Betts.”

“Thanks,” she says, padding over in her bare feet to join him. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “It’s almost ready.”

“Yeah,” she says. “It smells good in here. Did you use the meat rub we got at the farmer’s market?”

Jughead nods. “I’m glad you feel like eating. I picked up some ginger ale in case you were feeling nauseous.”

It is, without a doubt, a very kind thing for him to have done. If her conversation with Veronica wasn’t fresh in her mind, Betty would think it was a friendly thing to do. She’d do the same, were their roles reversed. When he got sick in the spring, she made him chicken noodle soup. Those gestures are completely normal parts of their friendship, they _care_ about each other. That’s all it is.

(Isn’t it?)

“Thank you, Jug,” she murmurs, and he shrugs a shoulder as if to say _don’t mention it_ \- and he’s right, she doesn’t need to mention it, because this is just how they are to each other. It’s their version of normal. It’s not something Veronica needs to understand, as long as she and Jughead do.

(Right?)

 

* * *

 

“Jug! What the hell are you doin’ here?”

His head feels hot, the combined effect of his favourite old beanie and the warm late summer weather, but he leaves the hat where it is. He’s here for some kind of chat, but probably not _that_ kind. Not yet.

He’s standing on the rickety step of his father’s trailer in south Riverdale, his hands shoved in his pockets, looking up at the man whose name he bears, and thinking, _I wish I knew._

“Was in the neighbourhood,” Jughead replies, appraising his father. He too, is dressed unseasonably warm: a flannel shirt he’s had for years, same scruffy beard, same dirty undershirt beneath.

It’s not totally a lie; technically, he’s in town to pick up a guitar that Archie had mentioned wanting from his father’s house before a visit he’s planning to New York in November. Fred offered to send it down to the city, or even bring it himself, but Jughead had volunteered to come up instead on Archie’s behalf. Semi-consciously, he’d wanted to see his father, and FP was not a particular fan of trips to NYC.

(“I’ve got business going on, Jug,” he always said, “can’t just leave.”)

“Well come on in, kid.” FP turns and steps back into the trailer.

Jughead glances to his left and sees a scattering of rusted barrels resting by the door. They’ve been there for as long as he can remember; suddenly, now, he wonders what they’re for.

FP flops onto his favourite armchair, once a prized find from a secondhand shop, further tattered now from years of use. “So what are you doing in town, Jug?” he asks.

“Archie needed something from Fred’s,” he says vaguely, glancing around the trailer. He hasn’t been since Christmas, but it looks largely unchanged, save for slightly less dust on the worn surfaces. “Place looks … good.”

“I clean once or twice.” FP clears his throat. “You want a drink? Beer?”

Jughead shakes his head. “No thanks.” He sits down on the couch, wincing as one of the springs digs almost instantly into his back. _Old faithful,_ he thinks; he’s spent more nights on this couch than he can count, but somehow it was always more comfortable than the old cot that he lived on for four months at the back of the Twilight’s projection booth.

“Anything new in the city?”

His eyes catch on an old photo of himself and Jellybean behind an empty bottle on a side table, the memory safe inside a dusty frame. “You talk to Mom lately?” he asks, ignoring the question.

FP leans forward and turns down the volume of the baseball game he’d been watching. “No. Talked to your sister about a month ago, though. She sounded good. Why? Have you?”

“No, Mom doesn’t - never mind. And no reason.” Jughead looks away, focusing on his hands. “She said she was sick of you trying and failing, right?”

FP’s frown is deep and contrasted only by the equally firm look of surprise on his face at the line of questioning. “What are you bringing this up for, boy?”

Again, Jughead ignores him. “But did _she_ try? Or did she - did she care? When she left us, do you think she realized she was giving up on you too?”

“Not me, Jug.” FP clears his throat and peers at Jughead intently. “ _Us._ She gave up on _us._ ” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He starts shrugging the flannel off of his shoulders, and when he turns to discard it behind the chair, Jughead catches sight of the very end of a serpent’s tail peeking out from beneath his undershirt.

It’s easy to recognize; FP’s may be significantly larger, but Jughead has the same one on his upper arm. He’d gotten it from Toni Topaz, a onetime girlfriend from his short stint at Southside High School. She’d been good for him in all the ways he didn’t need and bad in others, but as his first foray into girls beyond Betty Cooper, most importantly, she’d been patient. They’d parted as friends, with Toni’s recognition that Jughead was never going to be really _over_ another girl he’d never dated, and last he’d heard she was living with a girlfriend in Portland.

He still hates the tattoo. It’s a mark of the hereditary nature of failure, he supposes, or something like it.

The sound of his father’s cough startles Jughead from his thoughts. “Look, I know I wasn’t … great at being a father,” FP comments. “I know the time I spent away didn’t help. But I didn’t choose to leave you, Jug. Not like she did.”

 _But you did,_ he thinks. _Every time you picked them, you did._

“Was she ‘the one’?” Jughead asks, feeling increasingly foolish about his thought process but unable to stop the questions from coming. “Mom?”

The tilt of FP’s head indicates some level of concern for Jughead, but after a few moments of quiet assessment, he takes a swig of his beer and answers anyway. “No,” he states bluntly. “I was young and stupid, but she was younger than me even. Pretty. Came around the bar a lot. One thing led to another, and then you were here. Her parents wanted us to get married, so we did, but it was never great. Eventually your sister came along too, but we were never right for one another.”

“So when she left, was it a relief?”

FP frowns at him again. “Heartbreak is never a _relief,_ Jug. Not like that, anyway, and not when she took my daughter with her.” He empties his beer and stands up, ostensibly to get another. “At least I had you though, Jug. You were always a good kid, even when you tried not to be.” He ruffles Jughead’s hair, dislodging the beanie, and walks toward the fridge. “You sure you don’t want a beer?”

Jughead shakes his head. “No thanks, Dad.” He hesitates before his next question, then asks it anyway. “You said her parents wanted you to get married. What did yours want?”

FP snorts in response, clinking bottles in the fridge as he seeks a particular brand. “My mom was just happy to have a grandkid.”

“And your dad?”

“The original FP, you mean? He couldn’t have given less of a shit,” FP answers, shuffling back into the living room with a fresh beer. “He was never much for parenting.”

Jughead drops his head, his heart sinking a little with it. His throat is suddenly clogged, making normal speech evasive, but he manages to spit out, “Gotta go, Dad,” and walks out of the trailer.

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He gets home late on the second-last train from the bus station, lugging Archie’s guitar in one hand and his messenger bag strapped across his chest. He assumes that Betty will be asleep by the time he reaches the apartment, but when he steps inside, she’s not. She’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, a bowl of dry crackers in front of her, looking slightly pale.

“Hey, what are you doing up?” Jughead asks, setting the guitar down and ridding himself of his shoes.

Betty glances at him and makes a face. “Felt kind of nauseous, so I didn’t want to go to sleep quite yet. Last night, I fell asleep early, and ended up nearly puking on my comforter.”

Jughead winces at the image. “You could’ve woken me up,” he points out. “I can … I dunno, sit with you. If you want.”

“While I’m vomiting?” Betty clarifies, an amused glint in her eyes. “No, that’s - you don’t need to do that.”

Jughead sits down on the couch beside her, wringing his hands. “You shouldn’t have to go through all that unpleasant stuff alone.”

Betty’s mouth makes a sudden but gentle sighing noise, then her palm is on his cheek, turning his gaze to hers. “Juggie,” she breathes, clearly touched. “That’s very sweet. But I knew what I was getting into, doing this by myself.”

“Still.” He feels awkward now for his offer, but he still means it. “Me not being … I dunno, a dad, or whatever, doesn’t mean I can’t be supportive.”

He glances away, intentionally steering his focus to the episode of _I Love Lucy_ that she’s been watching. 1950s TV shows aren’t exactly her television entertainment of choice, but he’d had it on his Netflix while up late writing the night before, and she’s apparently just continued where he left off.

“You’ll be a great dad,” she says softly. “When you want to be.”

Jughead sets his jaw and chooses not to reply. He vehemently disagrees with that idea, especially after his conversation with his own father. Whether it’s genetics, learned behaviours, or even just the fucking _name,_ one thing is clear: men in his family are not cut out to be fathers. There are no crippling genetic disorders in his family or anything, and he’s heard people say more than once that his father is attractive, so the cheekbones are in there too, but the idea that he’s potentially polluted Betty’s baby with his shitty DNA is enough to make _himself_ slightly nauseous.

“Plus,” Betty continues, placing a hand on his forearm, “I know that you were doing me a big favour with the … sperm donor thing, but you’re gonna be a great figure in this kid’s life regardless of title. This little zygote is already lucky to have you. I’m obviously not gonna _make_ you do anything, but you’ve been my best friend my whole life, and I assume that doesn’t end when I have a baby.”

“Of course not,” Jughead says, smiling at her to hopefully alleviate any anxiety he’s already unintentionally caused. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, Cooper.”

“Good.” Betty bites her lip, then leans against his shoulder. “How was Riverdale? How’s your dad?”

Jughead sighs and shakes his head slightly in response. “He’s the same,” he tells her. “He’s always the same.”

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, squeezing his wrist. “He’s … a complicated guy.”

“He’s not,” Jughead disagrees. “That’s the problem. He’s excruciatingly simple. He wants one thing, and it’s never-”

He can’t bring himself to say the words _never me,_ but the threading of Betty’s fingers through his tells him that he doesn’t have to.

“He cares,” she says in a near-whisper, so quiet she’s almost drowned out by Desi Arnaz. “He just doesn’t know how to show it. But he will.”

“He’s been my father for almost thirty years, Betty.” His voice is almost cracking, but it’s _Betty,_ and he doesn’t care. “It’s too late for that. Just gotta focus on preventing that from happening again.”

Betty lifts her head up. She’s staring at him, he can tell; her gaze has never been piercing, but she can bore holes in him just the same. “What do you mean?”

“I -” Jughead stops, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. “He’s the _same_. His dad was the same. And _I’m_ the same. I -”

“You are not,” she interrupts fiercely, her green eyes shining with unshed tears. “Stop it. We’ve been over this. You are _not_.”

“I am,” he insists, gesturing forcefully around the apartment. “We both live in fucking caves. We even look the same. We’re both alone, which is probably just as well, since we’re both toxic to people who get stuck with us. Even my mom doesn’t call me back anymore! Honestly, I’m surprised _you’ve_ survived this long. I just hope this isn’t hereditary, or … god, Betts, I’m so fucking _sorry_.”

“Jughead,” Betty says, her voice as patient and even as he imagines it likely can be while she’s dealing with an emotionally unstable roommate. “Look at me.”

He doesn’t; he can’t deal with her pity, with that fucking look of _poor-Jug_ sadness that she gets on her beautiful face every time he’s weak enough to let this happen around her. He never, _ever_ wants to be the reason that there are tears in her eyes, and he hates himself for putting them there today.

Instead of repeating his name, Betty pushes his arms away and climbs into his lap, straddling his thighs. She grabs his face in her hands and forces it toward hers with no manner of gentleness. “Jughead. You stupid, sweet man. Stop.” She drags a shaky breath in; he gives her a pained look at the sound, and she bites her lip before continuing. “You aren’t like your dad, Jug. You look like him, but that’s it, okay? Yeah, he’s made some mistakes. You’ve made a couple, too. But it doesn’t mean you’re going to end up just like him. You’re already way ahead - you’ve got a successful career, one that involves making people’s lives better.”

“Don’t want them to end up like me,” he mutters, “with a box of regrets and a stupid tattoo.”

“I never liked you in the Serpents,” Betty admits, “but that tattoo doesn’t have to mean anything that you don’t want it to.” She straightens her shoulders. “And I’m _glad_ that my baby came from you. This child will grow up strong and smart and probably have really great teeth.” She runs her fingers over his lips, tracing the line where they meet, and adds, “I just hope that he or she smiles a little more than you do … and that you start to, too.”

“Thanks, Betty,” Jughead mumbles. He groans and rubs his face with the heels of his palms before dropping his hands and squeezing her thighs. “God, I thought you were supposed to be the overly hormonal one.”

She giggles, pecks his cheek, and slides off of him. “That’ll come,” she promises. “Wanna watch _Game of Thrones?”_

 

 

tbc.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We continue to be overwhelmed by the attention and love you've all given us. It seems that we've caused some anxiety, lol, but be assured that we are as committed to happy endings for everyone as anyone else is.

By the third month of her pregnancy, Betty’s gleeful anticipation has given way - at least in part - to a thorough kind of weariness that no amount of sleep seems able to alleviate. Her “morning” sickness tends to start late in the evening and abate a couple hours after she wakes up, so on most days she gets up, goes to work, and comes home and does some lesson planning before planting her face back in a pillow. She prepared herself, as best as she could, to embark on motherhood on her own, but she has to admit that she’s not sure how well she’d be faring without Jughead. He’s essentially taken over all cooking duties, and has woken her up on two occasions when she slept through her alarm after a night of vomiting. If she were living by herself, she’d probably be eating soda crackers for dinner every night and being dragged out of heavy sleep by the sound of a phone call from her school’s principal asking her where on earth she was.

She’s told him that he can be involved in her baby’s life in whatever ways he wants. She’ll let him set the parameters; she thinks that’s his right. She’ll be happy if he’s Mom’s-Friend Jughead or Uncle Jughead or whoever else he’d like to be. His responses have been sort of careful: quiet nods and soft smiles, jokes about introducing the baby to The Smiths, asking if Capote would be good bedtime reading material. It’s still early, but she thinks he might be feeling a little hesitant about claiming a role, and she doesn’t want him to be. After all, her baby wouldn’t even exist without him.

That’s why, as she sits at the kitchen table in the morning, drinking a large vanilla milkshake from McDonald’s that she ordered via UberEats at 6 a.m., much to the bafflement of the man who delivered it (it’s no milkshake from Pop’s, which is what she’s really craving, but it’s an acceptable substitute), she says, “Hey, Jug?”

He’s in his usual morning position, leaning against the counter by the coffeemaker, finishing off his first cup as he browses through the day’s news on his phone. He must have an important meeting, because he’s wearing one of his nicer button-down shirts and a tie. Betty’s tired mind registers that he looks handsome, and then helpfully supplies her with a memory of his mouth sucking a mark onto her collarbone, which is an entirely senseless thing for it to do - last week she forgot the word _Connecticut_ while she was teaching geography, but apparently her brain has no problem recollecting sex with her roommate.

“Betty?”

She meets Jughead eyes, sees that one of his brows is tilting upward, and realizes that this is not the first time he’s spoken to her. “Sorry,” she says, shaking her head to clear it. “I just wanted to ask - I mean, I wanted to tell you - I have an appointment on Thursday. It’s my first sonogram. I just wanted to let you know that if you want come, you’re welcome to. No pressure or anything, but…” She trails off, shrugging. “I mean, I know you’re probably busy.”

He sets his mug of coffee down. “I don’t have anything happening on Thursday that I can’t move around,” he says slowly. “If you’re sure it’s okay, then… yeah. I’d like to come.”

“Really?” she asks. She smiles, and it’s only then, as she quite literally feels her face light up, that she realizes how much she’d been hoping he would say yes.

Jughead’s expression shifts from hesitancy into something much softer, something almost tender. “Yeah. I’ll be there. Thanks for asking me, Betts.”

“Thanks for saying yes,” she responds easily.

“Are you excited?”

She nods, still smiling, and casts a quick glance down at her stomach. She’s bloating more easily, on the days when she has enough of an appetite to eat a substantial meal, but her belly hasn’t popped yet. The only physical changes she’s experienced so far are the appearance of purple-blue bags beneath her eyes and several hormonal breakouts on her chin. “If I didn’t feel so gross all the time, I’m not even sure it’d feel real,” she says. “I can’t wait to see what’s going on in there.”

“You look the same,” Jughead agrees. “I can’t believe there’s a human being inside of you. And I can’t believe that there’s a situation in which it’s acceptable to drink a milkshake at six-thirty in the morning, and that I’ll never have the chance to be in it.”

“Maybe when you push something the size of your melon out of your body,” Betty says with a quirk of one of her brows. She gets up to toss her empty to-go cup in the crash.

“It’s only the size of a lime right now,” he points out.

Betty looks over at him, her mouth pulling slightly to one side in amusement. “How do you know that?”

“I have fingers and access to Google,” he says wryly as he sets his mug in the sink.

 _You’re keeping track of the baby?_ is what she was really trying to ask, but she doesn’t push him on it. Instead, she lifts her hands to adjust the knot of his tie. “You look nice today, Jug,” she tells him.

He lifts a hand, too, and cups her elbow very lightly. “Thanks,” he says, making a disgruntled face as she tightens the knot just a little. “So do you.”

“Thanks,” she echoes him, though her outfit is unremarkable and she still looks a bit like a zombie despite all the concealer she’s wearing. She glances at the clock and drops her hands. “I better get going. You’ll be home at dinnertime?”

Jughead nods, fingers twitching midair as though he’s longing to loosen the tie again. She bats the hand away gently, giving him a chiding look.

“I’ll see you later this evening, Juggie. Have a good day.”

“You too.” His eyes drop to her belly. “And you too, little lime. Don’t make your mom too nauseous today.”

He glances back up with her with a look on his face that’s almost sheepish, something shy about his smile. Betty spends her entire commute analyzing every facet of that smile, and reaches exactly zero conclusions by the time she arrives in her classroom.

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Her phone rings only a few minutes after she gets home, while she’s changing out of her work clothes and into pyjama pants and an oversized sweater. The caller ID informs her that it’s Veronica. Betty swipes across the screen to answer as she shakes her hair out of its ponytail and uses her free hand to massage her scalp.

“Hey, V,” she greets.

“Hey yourself,” Veronica says. Not far from the phone, Betty can hear the happy gurgling of a baby; she must be holding Montgomery. “How are you doing?”

“Exhausted,” Betty says honestly. “I would sleep twenty hours a day if I could. And it’s not exactly helping that my kids are still eating Halloween candy - they’ve been overactive for two weeks.”

Veronica makes a sympathetic sound. Betty can envision exactly the way her best friend’s head is tilted in commiseration, the slight wrinkle of Veronica’s nose. “Do they know Miss Cooper’s having a baby?”

“Not yet.” Betty stretches out on her bed. “It feels too early, still; I’ll tell them when I start showing. No one knows but you.” She pauses. “And Jug, of course.”

“Of course,” Veronica repeats with a little edge that has Betty closing her eyes and praying that an interrogation won’t follow. Thankfully, Veronica moves on to another topic. “I was just calling to check in with you about Friday night,” she says. “You didn’t reply to my Facebook invite.”

“Oh!” Betty says. “I’m sorry, Veronica, I guess I forgot, I’ve just been - ”

“Busy baking that bun in your oven,” Veronica interjects. “Which is a very important job. No worries, B. I just wanted to know if you’re planning to come. If you’re not feeling well, I completely understand - but it is Cher and I’s first night out without our boy, so it would be great if you could pop by, even if it’s not for very long.”

“Of course I’ll be there. It’s your wife’s birthday. I should be able to stay for a couple hours before my non-morning sickness kicks in.”

“Aw, B,” Veronica clucks. “Poor girl. You’ve got to be close to the end of this, right?”

“Hopefully, yeah. I’ve got my twelve-week ultrasound on Thursday, actually.”

“That’ll be amazing,” Veronica says warmly. “You’ll get to see your mini Cooper. Do you want company? I can send Montgomery to work with Cheryl, or bring him, if you don’t mind.”

“No, it’s okay,” Betty says. “Thank you for the offer, but Jughead’s going to come.”

“ _Is_ he?” Veronica asks, her interest obviously piqued.

Betty sighs. “V, do you remember what I said about being really tired?”

“Mmhm. You can’t be really tired for the rest of your life, Betty.”

She rolls her eyes. “I should let you go, V. I want to get a little grading done while I still have a single ounce of energy.”

“Alright. Let your roommate-slash-baby-daddy know he’s invited on Friday, too, even though he’s too cool to check his social media.”

Betty smiles. “I will. Kiss Monty for me.”

“Montgomery,” Veronica corrects on a huff. “I will. He sends kisses back.”

“Talk soon,” Betty says, and ends the call. She intends to get up, but ends up setting an alarm on her phone instead, deciding to allow herself a half-hour nap and tugging the throw blanket she keeps at the end of the bed up over her body.

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Jughead’s barely taken two steps into the waiting room at New York Presbyterian in Flushing when a frown starts tugging one corner of his mouth downward.

“Hey,” he says, perching on the chair next to hers and setting a hand on her forearm. “I’m sorry, am I late?”

Betty half-frowns at him, confused, and then sees that he’s looking down at her foot, which is tapping against the floor. “Oh, no,” she tells him, crossing her legs. “I was supposed to drink a bottle of water before I came in, and now I really have to pee,” she explains, shooting him an embarrassed-apologetic look.

“That sucks,” he says, frown still in place. He glances over the receptionist briefly, as if he’s about to inform her of his opinion on this practice.

She puts a hand on his knee. “Distract me. How was your day?”

“Kind of unproductive. The director of this place has so many ideas, and they’re good ones, but they just _don’t_ have the funds right now, so it’s… I mean, I’d be all for it if the money to help people just fell from the heavens, but it doesn’t. They need to apply for grants and get some regular donors. And apparently it’s just become my job to present that point persuasively.”

He sounds doubtful about it, so she says, “You can do that. You convinced a sherriff to re-open a case ruled an accidental death and re-investigate it as a homicide when you were _sixteen_. You’ll - ”

“Elizabeth Cooper?” a technician calls, interrupting her.

Betty gets up, feeling a sudden rush of nervous butterflies. “That’s me,” she says, her anxiety settling a bit as Jughead stands up beside her.

“Nice to meet you and congratulations on your pregnancy! Come on back.”

They follow the technician into a room, where Betty settles onto an exam table and rucks her t-shirt up to just beneath her breasts. Her ultrasound tech also asks that she unbutton her jeans, and then tucks a sterile sheet into their waistband. Jughead seems vaguely embarrassed by Betty’s less-than-publicly-appropriate state of dress, and keeps his eyes firmly focused on her face.

“A little chilly,” the tech warns cheerfully before she spreads gel on Betty’s abdomen. “Baby makes three, hm?” she asks conversationally. “You’ll make a lovely little family. How long have you two been together?”

“Oh, we’re - we’re not,” Betty says, stumbling over her words; Jughead’s expression has reached a new, almost-pained level of discomfort. “Jughead’s a friend. I mean - ” She bites her lip. “He’s… the baby’s father. But in a friendly way. We’re friends. Best friends.” When her word vomit finally ends, she gives the tech one of the serene, nothing-to-see-here smiles she learned from her mother.

“I see,” the tech says, and to her credit, only a hint of amusement is visible on her face before she schools her expression back into professionalism. “Well, it’s great that you’re so close! Let’s take a look at your little one here…”

Betty peeks over at Jughead, trying to convey _sorry this got weird_ via her expression. In response, he makes a _no big deal_ face and gives her shoulder a quick squeeze.

“Here we go,” the tech says, turning the monitor toward them. “There’s your baby. Here’s the head…” She moves the wand on Betty’s stomach and points toward the screen. “And there we’ve got some kicking legs… and here, and here, these are baby’s arms… ”

“Oh my god,” Betty manages after a moment of just staring at the moving images. A ridiculous part of her wants to say _hi_ , as though she’s not carrying the baby she’s currently seeing inside of herself.

The tech smiles at her. “And right there,” she says, pointing to a flicker of light on the screen, “is baby’s heartbeat. Let me get some measurements, and then we’ll get audio going.”

“Okay,” Betty murmurs, watching the baby shift inside of her each time the technician moves the wand. She wants to touch her stomach and see if the baby responds that way to her, too, but she doesn’t want to interrupt the collection of measurements, so instead she reaches out - blindly, not turning from the monitor - for Jughead’s hand, and finds that it’s right there waiting for her. His fingers link through hers, holding on firmly.

“You’re… twelve weeks, yes?” the tech asks. She glances at Betty’s chart and answers her own question, “Yes. Perfect,” she adds as she writes some numbers down. “Alright, let’s see if we can hear this heartbeat.”

A moment and a couple flicked switches later, a rapid thrum fills the room, beating to the same rhythm as the flicker on the screen. The sound makes Betty’s eyes go wide and takes her breath away; it makes every moment she’s spent on the bathroom floor feel completely worth it. That’s her _child_ , with moving limbs and a quickly-beating heart. That’s the person she’s going to love, so very much, every day for the rest of her life. The image on the monitor is grainy, but it gives her what feels like a burst of clarity - it’s the best thing she’s ever seen.

She doesn’t tear her eyes away until she hears Jughead says, softly, “ _Shit._ ” She looks up at him and discovers that his eyes are shining with tears.

“Juggie,” she whispers, her voice a little strangled by emotion. She grips his hand more tightly and his knuckles go white along with hers as he returns the gesture.

“Sorry,” he says, his gaze flicking back and forth from her face to the image of the baby. “Sorry, it just got so - ” He swallows. “So real.” Jughead blinks hard a few times and then murmurs, “We made that, Betts. That - that beating heart.”

The quiet wonderment in his voice lodges a lump in her throat that makes it impossible to speak without bursting into tears, so she just nods her head against the small pillow with its scratchy disposable pillowcase. He lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles, then presses their joined hands briefly to his cheek, where she thinks she feels moisture on his skin.

“Sounds nice and strong,” the tech says in a muted voice that’s clearly meant to interrupt their moment as gently as possible. “Everything looks good, Ms. Cooper. I’ll print you out a couple pictures and leave them for you at reception. You can get cleaned up and then head out there to book your next scan.”

Betty inhales deeply as she looks away from Jughead. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” the tech says. “Congratulations, again.”

She leaves, and Betty and Jughead slowly disentangle their hands. He reaches for a towel and gives it to her; she shoots him a tiny thank-you smile before using it to wipe the gel off her belly and tossing it into the bin earmarked for used towels. She sits up fully, buttons her jeans, and straightens her shirt, shifting so that her legs dangle off the side of the exam table but not getting up just yet.

Jughead moves in closer to her, and automatically, she shifts her legs apart a little more so that he can stand between them. He cups her jaw in his hand, smoothing his thumb over the apple of her cheek. She closes her eyes, leaning into his touch, and he gives her a moment before he says, “Betts.”

When she opens her eyes, a tear sneaks out and drips quickly down her right cheek. “I’m happy you were here,” she whispers to him, and then reaches out to wrap her arms around him in a hug.

He smoothes his hands over her back, palms flat and fingers splayed like he wants to touch as much of her as possible. “Me too,” he says, sighing against her ear. “Me too.”

 

* * *

 

Jughead slides the record out of its slim cardboard cover and carefully settles it over the platter of his turntable, slipping the spindle through the record’s centre hole. He doesn’t bother to close the lid over top - if it collects dust, so be it - and presses play, then watches as the tone arm moves over and lowers the stylus to the vinyl.

Immediately, the opening tones of “Secret Meeting” by the National start playing. Jughead adjusts the volume slightly, then goes to his bed and flops onto his back. He keeps his mind mercifully blank for the first few moments, but when Matt Berninger asks, _Didn’t anybody tell you how to gracefully disappear in a room?_ Jughead’s peace breaks.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a copy of Betty’s sonogram from the previous day. He’s only had it just over twenty-four hours but it’s already a little worn around the edges. He can’t help it; as small and Rorschach-y as it is, it’s a picture of Betty’s baby.

 _Their_ baby.

Jughead shoves it back in his pocket. _Betty’s_ baby, he silently tells himself. _You are not a parent._

Still, he can’t stop thinking about the appointment he’d accompanied Betty to: about the room, sterile and cold; about the ultrasound technician, with her warm smile and awkward (yet easy) assumptions; and of course, about the _sound_ they’d heard - the quick whir of a heartbeat in utero. A heartbeat belonging to a growing baby that will one day be _his child,_ at least biologically. It’s incomprehensible to think about, that Betty’s baby will be born and may have his hair, or his eyes, or his complexion.

He does know one thing: her baby will always have _him_ , in whatever manner she’ll allow.

He’d been exceedingly grateful at being permitted to go to the sonogram appointment with Betty; he sort of had assumed that Veronica would be playing supporter-number-one, and would thus be tagging along to those sorts of events, but then Betty had asked him and he’d agreed immediately. The opportunity to see his - _her_ \- baby and to be there when the doctor reaffirmed the fetus’s health was something that he wouldn’t have wanted to miss. And while Jughead definitely believed the pregnancy before (Betty’s exhaustion over the last few weeks was hard to argue with), actually seeing everything on the screen had made it all the more real to him.

In just a few short months, there will be a real baby in Betty’s arms. A real human being that he made half of - though he does have to admit that Betty is doing the vast, vast majority of the work.

He pulls up his pregnancy app on his phone and thumbs to the tab that reads _your baby this week_. As he’d expected, there is no app geared toward expectant fathers who’d acted as sperm donors for their best friends that they’re secretly in love with and who now have a strange, tangential relationship to the pregnancy, so Jughead is using an app designed for pregnant mothers. As a somewhat unexpected result, the questions that he has - and cannot ( _will not_ ) ask Betty - are mostly surrounding the colour of her discharge, any spotting, and whether or not she feels bloated.

(He knows the last one is true; she’s said as much on numerous occasions, but he isn’t touching the rest of them with a ten-foot pole.)

Because of the app, Jughead knows that the fetus’s eyes have now moved to the front of its head, and that most of its important systems are nearly through the development process. He wonders if Betty is going to get prenatal genetics tests to determine the baby’s specific health, and files that away for a definite _later_ conversation. Tonight, they’ve made plans: or, more accurately, plans have been thrust upon them.

Cheryl Blossom, she of the maple-fame Blossom empire, is celebrating a birthday. Normally, he’s not forced to engage in this kind of event, but Veronica had apparently made a special request that Betty be there (the exhaustion of her first trimester was allegedly not a good enough excuse to skip it, which Jughead thinks is fucking bullshit). When Betty had told him, she’d also mentioned that he was invited to go as well but shouldn’t feel any obligation.

Normally, he’d take that as an easy out, an excuse to _not_ go rub shoulders with the society types that Veronica and Cheryl associate with. It’s not like either of them particularly cares if he’s there, despite how well he usually gets along with (at least) Veronica. But tonight, despite how tired her eyes are and how generally _blah_ he knows she feels, Betty’s well-honed sense of personal obligation and her observation of social niceties means that she’s going to put on a pair of heels and a dress and go sit at a bar for some period of time. And he is not going to make her do that alone.

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This is how, approximately twenty minutes later, just as his record player repeatedly echoes _I’m so sorry for everything, I’m so sorry for everything_ , Jughead finds himself grabbing two different button-down shirts (one blue and one black) and walking into the living room.

Betty is sitting on the couch, munching on a small dish of unsalted almonds. She looks up as he enters. “Hi, Jug.”

“Which one?” he asks, holding both against his undershirt. “Blue or black? I’m partial to the blue one myself, but the black one is newer, so it’ll probably earn fewer ‘hobo’ comments from Cheryl.”

She pops another almond in her mouth and tilts her head. “Hold up just the black one.”

Jughead obeys. He shifts his weight to his right foot impatiently. “Black like my soul?”

Betty ignores him. “Now the blue.” As soon as he switches, she nods. “Definitely the blue one,” she decides. “Brings out your eyes.”

“But I like my eyes where they are,” he jokes.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Is that the sharp wit my baby’s going to inherit?”

“If he’s lucky.”

“Or she,” Betty corrects, a soft smile spreading on her face.

Jughead stares at her quietly. Her eyes look tired and her skin is somewhat pallid, but she’s still easily the most attractive woman he’s ever met; she was before, too, when there wasn’t a miniature human sucking the energy out of her body. If the baby doesn’t inherit absolutely everything from her, he thinks, it’ll be a travesty.

“Or she,” he agrees.

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Two hours later, Jughead is standing outside an overpriced, overrated, over-hyped bar on the Lower East Side called Attaboy that he’s heard entirely too much about. He’d known it wasn’t going to be worth his time the moment it had debuted by calling itself a speakeasy and then immediately landed on several online ‘best bars in NYC’ lists. A co-worker had been, and from that experience, Jughead knows to expect to wait two hours in line to pay twenty dollars for a disgusting cocktail. And such, he thinks, is Manhattan.

The bar itself seems a little low on the island for Cheryl, in Jughead’s opinion. Although not originally from New York, she’s taken to Upper East Side life like a fish to water, and venturing to something that was only blocks away from the Bowery seems a little too ordinary for her. Jughead decides that Veronica must be mellowing her out, then recognizes the irony in his thoughts, and shrugs them away.

Now that he’s standing on the sidewalk in front of the venue, with Betty shivering at his side, Jughead realizes that there _is_ no line. He initially assumes that the bar is closed until they walk inside and he is hit with a second realization: Cheryl has rented the entire bar for herself.

“Of course,” he mutters, turning to Betty. “Can I take your coat?”

“Yes, sure,” she replies politely, shrugging off her peacoat and handing it to him. She adjusts the hem of her dress somewhat self-consciously. In Jughead’s opinion, she needn’t worry. It’s a short-sleeved shift dress in a burnt orange colour that diverts any attention completely away from her abdominal area by being quite short; the three-inch heels she’s wearing - dalmatian print, he notes, obviously a gift from Veronica - are also quite eye-catching.

While they were still at home in Brooklyn, Betty had wondered aloud whether the dress was _too_ short, at least for the cool early November air, but she’d ultimately decided on wearing it anyway. Jughead wants her to be comfortable, always, but he’s also a pretty big fan of her legs, so he wasn’t going to argue with her. He’ll always like them best when they’re wrapped around his waist and her heels are digging into his lower back, but the dress is nice, too.

They’ve arrived intentionally late in order to limit the total amount of time that either one of them has to be in attendance - Jughead’s idea, not Betty’s - and as a result, the bar is already pretty full. The space itself is fairly small, so it’s difficult to judge whether Cheryl actually has this many friends or whether they’re just all crammed together.

Jughead leaves to give Betty’s coat and his to the girl working the coat check, and when he comes back he sees that Cheryl has already located her. The birthday girl is dressed in a flowing red ensemble with a slim black band wrapped around the material covering her bicep. He walks up just as Cheryl is giving Betty as warm a hug as he assumes that she’s capable of providing, and clears his throat.

“Happy birthday, Cheryl,” he tells her, with no hint of their storied history in his voice. “You look nice.”

Cheryl pulls back from Betty and appraises him. “Thank you, Jughead,” she says, his name sounding foreign, somehow. “I appreciate you coming.”

“Of course, she looks stunning,” Veronica interrupts, floating up to them with a server just behind her. “Cher is gorgeous in everything, particularly in her signature colour.” She turns to Jughead. “Scotch for you, Jughead, and a sparkling water for our lovely Miss Cooper over here.” She gives Betty an exaggerated wink.

Betty accepts the drink with a slightly reddened face. Jughead chews his bottom lip briefly then takes his scotch and pours a little bit onto the server’s tray. When Veronica gives him an odd look, he says, “For Jason.”

Cheryl makes a sound beside him that is somewhere between a sigh and a simple exhalation. “Thank you,” she tells him, placing a red-taloned hand on his wrist. “Thank you for remembering.”

“Once a twin, always a twin,” Betty pipes up. “We know you’re thinking about him today, and as we celebrate you, we’re celebrating him, too.”

“That’s very sweet, darling cousin.” Cheryl brushes a kiss to Veronica’s cheek. “I must go say hello to a few others. Do enjoy yourselves.”

Once she’s gone - not quite in a puff of smoke like Jughead always imagines, but something like it - Veronica flicks her eyes to Betty’s abdomen. “How _is_ the little nugget today?”

“Good,” Betty says, sipping her water. “Exhausting.”

“Oh I know,” Veronica says sympathetically, “but like I told you, you’re going to be tired forever now. Welcome to parenthood.”

Jughead makes a face. Tired forever? He doesn’t like the sound of that, or the idea that Betty will be in this permanent zombie-like state by eight-thirty for the rest of her life, all because they made a baby. “She’s doing okay,” he interjects, placing his palm on Betty’s shoulder for a brief moment, then dropping it. “I’ve been cooking more than usual to let her get some rest.”

“Oh yes.” Veronica turns her eyes to Jughead and lets a broad smile stretch across her face, slowly and with some sort of unspoken intention in her dark eyes. “I’ve heard all about what a helpful _roommate_ you’ve been.”

The unnecessary emphasis makes Jughead’s heart quicken for a split second before he shakes it off. As far he knows, Betty is going with a story that the last round of insemination was effective, so there’s no reason that he should be paranoid about Veronica’s words. She’s probably just playing some other kind of mind game, he guesses. Maybe he’ll figure it out later.

But then he catches Betty’s eye and she looks away with vibrantly red ears, and he knows.

Veronica grins and sips a glass of wine. “I’ll talk to you later, mom and dad.”

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Jughead talks to exactly two people before he decides that he’s done with socializing and goes to sit down. All the booths are already occupied, so he sits in a half-empty one and glares at the high-society types that are occupying it until they feel uncomfortable and leave. Once they’re gone, Betty slides in across from him, an amused expression on her face.

“Not in the mood to make friends?” she asks.

“No.” He nudges her foot with his beneath the table. “This is not my scene. These are not my people. Plus, I’m tired, it’s been a long week. I don’t wanna force a conversation with anyone.”

Betty nods slowly and then drops her chin to her shoulder. “I get it,” she says with a stifled yawn. “I’m tired, too.”

Jughead exhales. Obviously, she’s far more tired than he is; that’s the real reason that he wanted to find a place for them to sit down, but he’s still trying to figure out where the line is. “Are you feeling okay?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah.” Betty gives him a small smile. “I’m gonna go get another club soda in a minute, though.”

“I’ll get it,” he says automatically, already climbing out of the booth. “With lime?”

“Yes please.”

He takes Betty’s lack of protest as a sign that she’s _very_ tired and decides that they’re going to leave by eleven whether Cheryl and Veronica like it or not. He spots a tipsy Veronica blocking the path between himself and the bar and tries to duck to the side to evade her. Unfortunately, Veronica is nothing if not quick on her feet, and she blocks his escape with a slick shift to the side.

“Hey loverboy,” she drawls, clutching her wine glass in one perfectly manicured hand. “How are you doing?”

“Getting Betty a water,” Jughead states matter-of-factly. “She’s tired and it’s been a pretty long week, so I think we’ll probably head home in a bit.”

“That’s not what I asked you,” Veronica says, lifting a teasing eyebrow. “But it’s good to know you’ve already got the overprotective dad thing down pat.”

 _Jesus Christ._ Jughead groans; he’s not in the mood for Veronica’s double-speak tonight. “Okay, yeah, I guess you know that I agreed to be a sperm donor,” he says lowly. “But I don’t think she wants everyone to know, and she hasn’t even told anyone she’s pregnant yet, so -”

“Don’t worry about me, Jughead,” Veronica interrupts. “I am a sealed vault. And don’t worry about Betty either, she’ll adapt to the no-sleep thing. I _am_ a little worried about you, though.” She lowers her voice even further and frowns at him. “Seriously, Jughead. Level with me, V to J: are you not dying a little with this whole baby thing? In light of … y’know, your … crush.”

Jughead looks away and shakes his head. Veronica has confronted him about his feelings for Betty before, but he’s always denied them. It had never made sense to confess something like that when Betty was with Trev, and honestly, it still makes no sense to him now, at least if Veronica is somehow involved. He and Veronica get along decently well, but he owes her nothing.

“We’re not discussing this again, Veronica,” Jughead says curtly, then takes advantage of his added height and strides quickly past her.

By the time he procures a glass of sparkling water and a coke from the bartender, Veronica has mercifully been pulled into a new conversation with somebody else, and he’s able to walk right by her without needing to engage on the subject again. He weaves past another couple who are planning some kind of shot-drinking competition and approaches their booth, only to stop in his tracks when he sees a guy he doesn’t recognize sitting in his seat across from Betty.

“-gorgeous legs,” the guy is saying, “how many miles do you run a day?”

“Um, thank you,” Betty responds, shifting in her seat. She’s uncomfortable; Jughead can tell that instantly.

“Let me get you a drink,” the guy offers, flashing a set of pearly whites. “What was in that glass? Vodka? You look like a vodka-soda kind of girl, with a body like-”

Jughead sets the drinks down on the table with unnecessary force, then slides into the booth beside Betty and drops an arm around her shoulders. “She’s taken care of, dude,” he interrupts. “She doesn’t want a drink.”

“Why don’t you let her say that, buddy?” Betty’s would-be suitor challenges, leaning forward.

Jughead narrows his eyes and tightens his grip on Betty. “Why don’t you _fuck off_?”

Betty’s hand settles on his leg. “Jug -”

“Goodbye,” Jughead says dismissively.

For a moment, the guy looks at Jughead as though he’s not sure if he wants to hit him in the face or in the balls, but then he flings his hand in their direction as if to say _whatever_ and slips out of the booth, disappearing into the crowded bar. Jughead’s eyes follow him until he can no longer track him, then turn back to Betty.

“You okay?”

One of Betty’s eyebrows is raised just slightly, but the corners of her lips are upturned as well, and she nods. “I can handle that kind of thing, Jug,” she tells him.

Jughead smiles sheepishly at her. “I know,” he says apologetically. “I just figured I’d save you the trouble.”

Betty pats his leg. “Have some coke,” she advises. “You’re a bit like those old Snickers commercials without adequate sugar.”

He laughs and kisses her temple. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees. “But just saying, I’d have had adequate sugar if you hadn’t vetoed pancakes for supper.”

“It’s not really pancakes for supper when it’s syrup and a little bit of flour.”

“You say that like that’s a bad thing,” Jughead jokes, and slides her drink across the table.

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At ten forty-five, Jughead rounds up Veronica and Cheryl for goodbyes, and at five minutes to eleven, he loads an exhausted Betty into an Uber back to Brooklyn.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” Betty tells him sleepily, her head lolling on his shoulder in the backseat.

Jughead stares down at their hands, which are loosely entwined. She’d grabbed his earlier, on the way out (a mistake, he’s pretty sure), and he hasn’t had the willpower to disentangle them.

“Of course.” He bites his lip, looks out the window at the passing lights of the city, and adds, not for the first time, “Anything for you.”

 

 

tbc.


	8. Chapter 8

Despite the fact that she’s probably over-researched for this moment, Betty steps through the doors of Brooklyn Baby World and feels immediately overwhelmed. It doesn’t help that she’s tired. Her first trimester exhaustion has finally worn off - today’s tiredness is thanks to the conversation she had with her mother that morning, letting Alice know that she’s going to be a grandmother again.

(“Without a _husband_ , Elizabeth, really? Without a partner?”

“It’s not the fifties anymore, Mom. Lots of women are single mothers.”

“Not by _choice_ , Elizabeth. I don’t understand this. If you wanted a family, why not stay with - ”

“I’ve _explained_ this to you already! It’s too late to change my mind about this. I’m pregnant. It’s happening.”

“Sweetheart, you know that Trevor really loved you. Maybe if you called him, and apologized, and explained your situation, he’d take you - ”

“ _Mom._ ”)

“Hey, mama!” a voice behind her chirps, and Betty turns around to smile at Veronica.

“Hey yourself,” she says as they reach out to hug each other.

Mid-hug, Veronica gasps quietly and pulls back, her smile somehow both soft and beaming as she says, “Oh, Betty.” She touches a hand to the front of Betty’s sweater, to the belly that’s now rounded, her baby making its presence known. “Look at you.”

“I know.” Nudging the lapels of her open coat aside a little further, Betty smoothes a hand over her stomach, too. “She’s growing. Moving around like crazy in there.”

“She?” Veronica asks, her eyes widening.

“That’s just what I’ve been saying,” Betty says. “We don’t know for sure yet, should find out at my next sonogram.”

“ _We_ ,” Veronica notes as she hooks an arm through Betty’s and begins to lead her through the store.

“I just meant - Jughead’s been saying _he_ , to make things even.”

“Hm,” Veronica murmurs. “Not that I’m not delighted to be here, but why isn’t Jughead nursery shopping with you?”

“Because this isn’t his baby,” Betty says, quietly but pointedly. “It’s mine.”

“Betty…” Veronica comes to a stop and turns to look at her. “Is there any point in giving you the speech again?”

“No,” Betty says gently. “Come on…” She steers Veronica toward the cribs. “Baby needs furniture.”

Veronica surveys the selection with her nose tipped slightly into the air. “B, I’d be _happy_ to buy you the crib that Montgomery has for your shower.”

“Thank you,” Betty says, examining a tag dangling off one model that lists safety features. “But that’s not necessary. There are lots of good cribs that cost much less money.”

“Let me do something nice for my godchild.”

Betty quirks a brow at Veronica’s assumption, amused; she hasn’t even thought about naming godparents, though she supposes Veronica would be an obvious choice. And Jughead, if it was something he wanted. She doesn’t think she’s going to baptize her baby, so the title would mostly be symbolic. “I appreciate the offer Veronica, really,” she says. “But I don’t think a three thousand dollar crib is going to fit in nicely with my Ikea furniture.” She taps a hand on a nearby crib. “This is the one I liked online. Let me see if I can find a salesperson…”

“On it!” Veronica says, and marches down the aisle of cribs in her usual authoritative way.

Betty buys the things she came to the store for - a crib and a changing table - and a onesie printed with tiny giraffes that she finds herself completely unable to resist. She almost cries right there in the store when she touches its soft fabric; Veronica says, “Aw, honey,” and slips an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her in half a hug, but as Betty leans into the hug a little, sniffling, a thought ghosts through her mind, unbidden.

_I wish Jughead was here._

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A week later, Betty stands by the door of the apartment with a frown on her face, her eyes skimming quickly over the order form the deliveryman has handed her. He’s been very polite and patient with her - she imagines, in his line of work, that this is not the first time he’s met an insistent pregnant woman - and she sees now that he’s right, and she’s wrong.

“I’m sorry,” she sighs, handing the form back and rubbing at her forehead. “I could have _sworn_ I also paid for assembly.”

“It’s alright, ma’am,” he says easily. “We can book you an appointment for assembly on another day.”

“Thank you,” she says. “It’ll have to be a weekend - ” She catches the tiniest grimace on his face when she says that, and sighs again. “You’re fully booked for the next few weekends, aren’t you?”

He scrolls through his tablet. “I can see if there’s anywhere that we can squeeze you in…” The grimace has returned to his face, though, and she’s not expecting much. Internally, she curses her pregnancy brain.

“Oh - great.” She looks up at the sound of Jughead’s voice and sees him standing just behind the deliveryman, two reuseable bags hooked over his shoulders and one in his hand. “Nursery stuff’s arrived?” he asks. He’d gone for groceries on his own so that she could be home for the delivery.

“Yeah,” she says. “But I fucked up.”

“Don’t say that, ma’am,” the deliveryman says quickly. “We’ll figure something out.”

The three of them do a little dance so that Jughead can slip through the doorway with his bags. He sets them down on the floor and rests his hand against the small of Betty’s back. “What happened?”

“When I was in the store, I thought I asked for delivery _and_ assembly. But apparently I didn’t. And obviously everyone wants things delivered and assembled on Saturdays, so they’re booked up.”

“Until after Christmas,” the deliveryman says, finally looking up from his tablet with an apologetic expression on his face.

Betty heaves another sigh. “Great.”

“I can assemble this stuff, Betts,” Jughead says, looking at the boxes in their living room. “That’s no big deal.”

“Jug, no - you don’t have to.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he repeats, pressing his fingers into her lower back in a way that feels _really_ good against her aching muscles. “Assembly’s covered,” he tells the deliveryman. “Thank you.”

With clear relief he responds, “Great. Congratulations on your baby,” and gives them a quick wave before he disappears down the hall.

Betty frowns a little as Jughead closes the door. “If you’re going to do this, I’m helping,” she declares.

“You’re pregnant,” he reminds her. “No heavy lifting.”

“I can still help. I can hand you screws and stuff.”

“Alright,” he says with a small smile, like he thinks she’s being _adorable_ or something, and her frown deepens.

“I’m not an _invalid_ , Jughead. I’m not _incapacitated._ I’m - ”

“Whoa, okay,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender and then placing them on her shoulders. “I didn’t say you were. I get it; this is your baby’s furniture. We’ll do it together.”

Betty exhales slowly, looking down. “Sorry,” she says after a beat. “I think I’m kind of cranky.”

Jughead rubs at her upper arms lightly. “I stashed a KitKat in the back of the cereal cupboard if you want it.”

She looks back up at him. “I love you,” she says gratefully. “Thanks for dealing with my hormones.”

One corner of his mouth turns upward very briefly. “Go eat your chocolate,” he says, nuding her gently toward the kitchen. “I’ll get started.”

Betty eats half of the KitKat bar and sticks the rest in the fridge for later, then shrugs off the loose, flowy sweater she’s wearing before she heads back into the living room. Jughead is sitting on the floor with all the parts of the crib and an instruction booklet laid out in front of him.

“Does it look complicated?” she asks as she approaches him.

“No, not too bad.” He glances up at her and then goes still, both his face and his hands. She’s about to ask _what?_ when she realizes that his eyes are pinned to her stomach. She’s looks down, seeing what he’s seeing: the t-shirt she’s wearing was form-fitting before her pregnancy, and is now tight against her belly and riding up slightly, revealing a little strip of skin.

Jughead gets to his feet and takes a couple slow steps toward her. “Can I - ” he asks, extending a hand, an unfinished sentence that sounds a little tremulous.

“Of course,” Betty says. Her own voice comes out as a whisper.

He puts one hand against her belly and then brings the other up to join it, his thumb grazing past her bare skin. The awe on his face is so profound that it’s nearly tangible.

“You’re beautiful,” he says softly. He pulls his gaze up to her face. “You’re so beautiful.”

Betty doesn’t know if she leans in first, or if he does, but a moment later her eyes are fluttering closed as they kiss. The kiss is very soft at first and grows deeper by degrees, their mouths opening slowly, his tongue sweeping tentatively into her mouth. She lifts her hands to his face, touching his cheeks, feeling the weekend stubble over his skin. Jughead runs his hands over her bump and sneaks his fingertips beneath her shirt, like he’s greedy for her, and Betty sighs contentedly against his lips, letting herself lean into him, feeling greedy too.

It ends the way it began, slowly and in stages until their lips are just brushing lightly. She opens her eyes as Jughead pushes a lock of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear.

“Should put that crib together,” he says, a quiet murmur, and Betty nods breathlessly.

The crib and the changing table are assembled, everything screwed together securely. Jughead moves them around in Betty’s bedroom until she’s happy with their positions. They make dinner together, pasta and a simple sauce, and watch _Love Actually_ while they eat since Betty’s feeling Christmassy. She offers Jughead a bite of the remainder of the KitKat bar, and they don’t talk about the kiss.

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They find out that she’s having a daughter on a Wednesday morning, Jughead’s fingers wrapped around Betty’s when the technician says, “It’s a girl.” Both of them smile until they’re laughing, high on joy and adrenaline - Betty’s cheeks hurt by the end of the appointment.

She doesn’t cry until they’re in the lobby of the hospital, when it just _hits_ her, that she’s going to raise a daughter, that she’s going to have a little girl. One moment she’s fine, and then abruptly, it’s as though a dam breaks and there are tears running down her cheeks and a sob caught in her throat.

“Come here,” Jughead says, and tugs her into his arms. “You’re okay, yeah? Nothing hurts?”

She shakes her head, hiccuping against his shoulder, and cries into his coat for a couple moments before she manages to say, “I - I want her to have everything. Everything _she_ wants.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Jughead murmurs. He presses a kiss to her cheek and rubs slow, soothing circles against her back until she’s her breathing calms from something shaky to a more steady pattern.

They pull apart just a little, enough so that she’s no longer pressed right against him. He touches her forehead to hers, and she lifts her chin up ever-so-slightly to nudge her nose against his. They both look down at the bump of her baby, and Jughead strokes a hand gently over the curve of her belly.

“Baby girl,” he says, so softly she almost doesn’t hear him.

“She’s kicking, Juggie,” Betty tells him, and shifts his hand slightly to the right, where she can feel the little flick of her daughter’s foot.

His expression is one of concentration; she can tell that he still can’t feel the baby moving. Nonetheless, he smiles at her, warm and fond. She leans in to kiss that smile, hard and fast and fierce, and she intends to pull away, but he follows her, not done with her yet. He cups her jaw and kisses her again, his thumb rubbing absently against her stomach.

When the kiss breaks, they smile at each other; Betty feels almost shy. She sets her hand atop his on her belly.

“Oh, _congratulations_ ,” an elderly woman says as she walks by slowly with her walker, her husband’s hand against her elbow, guiding her.

Betty turns her smile toward the woman, her cheeks a little warm. “Thank you,” she says simply, and feels Jughead’s lips press against her temple.

Jughead pays for a Lyft back to their place even though Betty promises him she’s fine with taking the subway. It is, admittedly, nice to just sit down without having to navigate the awkward encounter of asking someone to give up their seat for her. She lets herself lean into Jughead’s side and rests her hands against her stomach as her daughter continues to move around.

“Do you know what you want to name her?” he asks.

“I have no idea.” She tilts her head back to look at him. “When I was little, I wanted to name my kid Daffodil.”

Jughead grins. “I didn’t know you were a secret hippie.”

She laughs and lays her cheek against his shoulder again. “I’ve talked about it before. You know, with Trev. I think all those names are off the table. She needs something fresh, something all her own.”

“There’re lots of names. You’ll pick a good one.”

“Any that you like?”

He’s quiet for a few seconds before he says, “It’s your decision.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not open to suggestions,” she says, resting a hand against his thigh.

“I’ll put my thinking cap on, then,” he says.

Betty’s eyes feel heavy-lidded by the time they’re back at their apartment. As she takes off her coat and shoes, she asks, “Hey, Jug, can I borrow a t-shirt? I want to take a nap, and everything I’ve been sleeping in lately feels so tight.”

“Sure.”

She follows Jughead into his bedroom and sits on his bed as he rifles through one of his dresser drawers. Her feet are a little sore, so she stretches her legs out along the mattress, and before she knows it, her head is settled against one of his pillows. His sheets smell like him, and her eyes fall shut without her permission.

“I forgot how comfy your bed is,” she says through a yawn, nuzzling her face against the pillow.

Across the room, she hears Jughead chuckle. “Are you gonna take that nap in here?” he asks, his voice closer now.

“That okay?” she asks without opening her eyes.

“Of course,” he says. She feels him settle his comforter over her body, tucking it around her. She hears his footsteps on the floor, and then the light behind her eyelids fades away as the curtains are drawn shut.

“Thanks, Juggie,” she says drowsily, and promptly falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

 Jughead wakes up with unexpected company in his bed.

It shocks him at first, because he _definitely_ remembers going to sleep alone, but even after blinking repeatedly, there is also definitely a Betty-shaped lump beside him. Jughead stares at the back of her head - messy blonde hair, strewn across his pillow - before his eyes travel lower, to the rise in her abdomen currently covered by his grey-blue comforter.

He’s seen her stomach, of course; after all, he hasn’t missed an appointment since she’d invited him to that first sonogram, and her belly is usually exposed in medical situations these days. But somehow it had been different when, a day and a half ago, Betty walked up to him in the living room with her t-shirt riding up her belly. He’d glanced up, not expecting to see skin, and froze; there it was. There _she_ was.

The news that they - _she_ \- would be having a daughter had also been incredible to learn. In both situations, it had been difficult to restrain himself from tugging Betty toward him and kissing her until she couldn’t breathe. The first time he lost the battle, holding her belly and pressing his lips to hers - but the second time it had been Betty, and the internal, quiet glee that Jughead had felt at that event was indescribable.

Still, Jughead knows better than to get excited about what he knows was just a hormonal response. Similarly, he knows that Betty is just here beside him because she got the old spare mattress in the breakup with Trev, and his is newer and far more comfortable. He’s still going to enjoy her closeness - especially as if affords him the opportunity to marvel at her growing belly without being creepy - but he’s not going to let his hopes get too high.

Just as he’s debating whether or not to succumb to nature’s call and slip out to pee, Betty rolls over. Or, more accurately, _flips_ over, with a vaguely disgruntled, uncomfortable look on her face. He watches her try to raise her knees to a fetal position, only to be stopped from a full tuck-in by her baby bump. She struggles for a few more minutes, tossing and turning and shifting around, until finally her eyes open and she sighs.

Jughead is still staring at her. “Hi,” he greets, raising himself on his elbow. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Betty blushes. “Hi. Sorry, I - my bed is so shitty.” She rolls onto her side to face Jughead, and for the first time he can read her pajama shirt: on the top, there are two antlers, followed by an arrow down to her belly and the words _oh deer!_ printed beneath.

“Nice shirt,” he comments.

She glances down and her face reddens slightly. “Veronica,” she explains.

It’s all she truly needs to say. Jughead nods in immediate understanding and then sits up. The clock reads six-thirty; time for him to hop in the shower. He’s been working a lot of overtime recently - as it turns out, many organizations are interested in maximizing their donor capacity around the holidays, when people are in the giving spirit - and he has a bit of an errand to run after work today, so he needs to leave slightly early.

Jughead looks over at Betty, deciding not to ask her why specifically she decided to creep into his bed. “Do you need into the bathroom, or can I -”

“I better pee,” she answers, sliding her legs off the mattress. Her pajama pants are reindeer-printed: classic Christmas, he thinks, very Betty. “Your daughter is a little pushy on my bladder these days.”

She’s gone into the hallway before Jughead can reply, but it’s just as well; his throat, it seems, is suddenly clogged.

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Jughead struggles into the foyer of his apartment building with a heavy bag from the cosmetics counter at Barney’s in one arm and a gigantic pregnancy pillow over the other. He stops at the small table that sits beside the front window of his building, rests the Barney’s bag on it momentarily so that he can readjust his grip on the pillow, then picks up the bag and heads for the elevator.

He steps into it when the doors slide open and tugs the pillow in after him, maneuvering it awkwardly so that it doesn’t rest on what he’s sure is a very rarely-cleaned floor. An older man who lives on the floor below Jughead steps in after him, gives him a knowing look, and spends the entire elevator ride to the tenth floor smirking at him. Jughead glares back, mutters a four-letter word under his breath when the man leaves, and strides out proudly onto the eleventh floor.

Betty is already home when he shoves the pillow through the doorway of their apartment, which he can tell by a disembodied, “Juggie!” that he hears as soon as the door is closed.

He tries to hide the Barney’s bag behind him and only slightly succeeds before Betty comes around the corner and tries to help him move the pillow out of the entranceway. He smiles at her sheepishly. “Merry Christmas?” he offers with a shrug. “I’m sorry, I should’ve tried to bring it home when you weren’t here, but there’s not really any hiding it.”

She stares at him and then over to the pillow, now safely resting on the hallway floor. “Is that a pregnancy pillow?”

Jughead shoves his hands in his pockets. “Seemed like you were having a hard time getting comfortable last night,” he says. “I figured it might help, or at least be nice for in the living room if you want. Or whatever. Or you can throw it out if -”

“I love it,” Betty interrupts, coming over to him and settling her hands on the front of his coat. “You didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugs again. “It’s part of your Christmas present,” he explains, and as if on cue, his foot hits the Barney’s bag beside him and causes it to topple over. He winces. “Shit.”

“What’s that?” she asks curiously, leaning around him.

Jughead sighs and leans down, picking the bag up. “Again, this is the worst, I’m sorry it’s not wrapped. You were not supposed to see me bring it in - or be so nosy,” he adds, at which she shrugs.

“If you want, I can pretend I never saw anything,” Betty offers.

“Nah, you’ve already seen too much. Either I give you your gift or kill you,” he jokes. “Hang on, let me get my jacket off.” He sets the bag back down and shrugs his coat off, dumping it unceremoniously on the free hook by the door. He’s about to pick up the bag and bring it into the living room when he notices the table set and a pot, carefully lidded, sitting between two plates. “Shit, am I late for dinner?”

Betty’s hands fly to his chest again. “It’s okay,” she says with a reassuring smile. “It’s just spaghetti, we can reheat it if it gets cold.”

“No, no.” Jughead shakes his head and crowds her out of the entranceway, his hands settling on her reindeer-clad hips. “Let’s eat dinner, you went to the trouble of making it.” He pulls Betty’s chair out for her, adding, “I see you wasted no time in putting your pajamas back on.”

“They’re comfortable,” she says defensively, snapping his suspenders as he walks by her to his side of the table. “Don’t judge.”

Jughead holds his hands up, grinning. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He lifts the lid of the spaghetti pot and lets the aroma of Betty’s homemade sauce waft by him. “Oh god, Betts, this smells like heaven. I am starving.”

“Classic Jughead,” she teases, and deposits a heap of spaghetti onto his plate.

And because he’s classic Jughead - never changing, it seems, always the same asshole with the same problems - it only takes him approximately twelve minutes to ruin his good shirt. He has a few strands of spaghetti from his second helping twirled onto a fork, halfway to his mouth, when it suddenly starts to unwind. He makes a last-ditch effort to re-circle the pasta on the utensil but fails, and the next thing that Jughead knows, his white dress shirt suddenly features a giant red stain.

 _“Shit,”_ he swears, standing up. “God damn it.”

“It’s okay,” Betty says instantly, rising to her feet and summoning him toward her with her hands. “Come here, take it off and I’ll scrub it so the stain doesn’t set.”

Jughead starts to unbutton his shirt, but Betty’s fingers fly faster than his toward his chest, and she has it mostly undone in no time. “Betts, I can take care of -”

“Let me do it,” she interrupts, pushing the shirt off of his shoulders. Her fingertips linger very briefly on his tattoo, and Jughead swears that there’s a twitch to her lips before she says, “You can see your tattoo through this shirt, did you know that?”

He glances down at his shoulder. “Oh,” he says, “I didn’t really notice.”

Betty pulls the shirt off of his arms and collects it in her hands. “Well,” she says, her eyes trained on his chest, “you can.” She looks vaguely irritable; Jughead decides for his own safety not to get in her way, but as he’s goes back to pick up the spaghetti he’d dropped on the floor, he can still feel her staring.

She must be mad, he thinks, and decides not to say anything in the hopes that her anger dissipates with an after-dinner nap.

Betty returns from the storage room, which also houses their in-suite laundry, and immediate busies herself at the sink. “Are you done with your plate?” she asks him, not making eye contact.

Jughead, who has returned to his seat and is still mid-bite, shakes his head. “Not quite yet,” he responds. He quirks an eyebrow and appraises her briefly; she’s a little red-faced, and from beneath the collar of her t-shirt, he can see that her chest is also flushed. “Are you okay?”

She snaps her gaze toward him instantly. “Yeah,” she breathes, looking away just as quickly. “Yeah, I’ll just … wait.”

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After dinner, Jughead briefly retires to his bedroom to throw a t-shirt and sweatpants on. Betty too has gone to her room, so Jughead takes her Christmas gift and assembles it hastily in an actual gift bag before going to the living room to wait for her.

She takes a few extra minutes, so he turns on the episode of _Game of Thrones_ that they’d left off on the evening prior, and pauses it just at the opening credits. “You comin’, Betts?” he calls.

Betty appears around the corner a moment later, her hair tied up in a knot and her face washed. “Yes, sorry.” She walks around the edge of the coffee table and sits down beside him, with her bare feet tucked beneath her legs - now exposed in a pair of floral-printed pajama shorts - and her knees angled toward him. “I’m just overheating a little, I think,” she explains.

Jughead averts his eyes from the low neckline of the camisole-like top she’s now wearing. Clearly, it’s an article from her pre-pregnancy life, because it is struggling to contain the swell of her pregnancy-enhanced chest. Which he hasn’t noticed _at all_ recently, nope, not one single bit.

“That’s okay,” he says, swallowing. Self-control is his middle name, especially where Betty is concerned; a pair of legs and some enlarged breasts will not defeat him today. “Do you want to watch the episode, or open your gift first?”

“Ooh, gift,” Betty says, clasping her hands together. “I’m sorry, yours isn’t quite ready - I was going to give it to you in Riverdale.”

“That was my plan, too,” he says wryly, “except for the pillow, obviously. Um. I’m sorry, again, for this being early.”

She shakes her head to dismiss his apologies and accepts the Christmas bag that Jughead hands her. She takes a peek inside, then meets his eyes. “What’s all this, Jug?”

“Oils,” he answers, lifting a nervous hand to scratch his ear. “Oils and lotions and other stuff for relaxing. All pregnancy safe,” he adds, “I checked with the lady at Barney’s.”

“And a Soothe gift card?” Betty continues, lifting a printed piece of paper from the bag.

“Should be enough on there for a pregnancy massage at least every month until you give birth,” he explains. “You’ve seemed a little … on edge lately. I thought maybe it might help.”

She stares at the contents of the bag for a long moment, then sets it down and wraps her arms around his neck. “Thank you so much,” Betty breathes into his shoulder. “You’re too good to me.”

Jughead returns the hug, suddenly _very_ aware of her state of dress now that she - and her belly - are pressed against him. Her breath hits the shell of his ear, and Jughead bites the inside of his cheek to distract himself. If he wasn’t so certain that Betty didn’t feel _that way_ about him, he would be equally certain that she was trying to drive him crazy intentionally. “You’re welcome,” he says, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as strangled as it feels. “Merry Christmas.”

Betty continues to confuse him throughout the duration of their _Game of Thrones_ viewing, constantly folding and unfolding her legs, and at one point resting a hand on his thigh. He keeps a casual arm over the back of the sofa, very unsure what she wants him to be doing and hoping that nothing is a safer bet than something.

She goes to bed early, after a long shower, with a vaguely pained look on her face and a pinch in her voice as she tells him, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Jughead echoes, watching until she disappears down the hallway. He shakes his head, hoping to correct the muddled piles of _what?_ that are collecting there.

When that fails, Jughead decides that he might as well add something else to the mix, and ducks down to pull out the books that he keeps hidden beneath the couch. There are a few classic academic tomes on learned versus inherited behaviours, but it’s the binder full of printed recent articles from academic journals that Jughead finds more valuable. Parenthood, it seems, is a hot topic, but he hopes that the more he reads, the closer he’ll get to an answer about just how involved he can reasonably hope to be with the baby before he and all of his tragic histories ruin her, too.

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Betty is in Jughead’s bed when he goes into his room just after one o’clock. The pregnancy pillow lays propped up against the wall beneath his window, unused, which he tries not to take as a personal slight. He sheds his clothing and climbs into bed in his boxers, figuring that _ah well, I tried,_ but as he starts to get comfortable he realizes that Betty is encroaching onto his side, her leg and arms sliding across him.

 _He’s_ the body pillow, he realizes. _Oh._ Before he can fully embrace what this might actually mean, Jughead’s long day and the stress of Christmas fundraising sends him to sleep.

He remains there for approximately one and a half hours before he’s woken up unceremoniously by a gentle tapping on his chest and a strange weight across his legs. He figures it must be some kind of terrible dream - or a bad joke, or _something_ \- and he tries to move his knees to dislodge whatever is on top of him until he realizes that the _what_ is actually a _who_ , and that the _who_ is Betty.

Jughead rubs his eyes and lets out a long, heavy yawn. “Is everything okay?” he asks, trying to make her out in the moonlight.

“No,” she whispers.

“What?!” Jughead reaches over immediately to his bedside lamp and flicks it on, cursing as the room is illuminated in a dull, yellow glow. “What’s happening? Is the baby - is something -”

“The baby is fine,” Betty cuts in.

His shoulders fall back to the mattress. “Oh,” he says, a wave of relief crossing over him. “Thank god.” His eyes close for a brief moment, then he realizes that _no,_ something else must be wrong, then, and they reopen.

She’s sitting on top of his thighs - straddling them, with one of her knees on either side of his hips - and it’s suddenly only now that Jughead realizes Betty is wearing only her panties and a lacy bralette that she’s started to wear to bed for added support. Her pajamas, it seems, have been discarded elsewhere, and her lower lip is worried between her teeth.

“I’m sorry,” she says, still in a whisper. “I really tried.”

“You tried what, Betts?” Jughead asks, staring up at her.

“I tried to do it myself.” Betty sighs, shifting across his lap, and touches her fingertips to his abdomen. “I think it’s - I read about this maybe happening, and I thought it’d be fine, but you looked so … hot today, and all week, and just - just lately.” Her face is bright red now, obvious even in the glow of the lamp, and Jughead frowns in confusion.

“What’s going on, baby?” he asks gently, touching her wrist with his hand.

“I need you to fuck me,” she blurts, shyly looking away right after the words come out. “I’m so - god, I don’t even want to say -”

“Betty.” Jughead sits up, his elbows pressing into the mattress. He raises his eyebrows in amusement and asks, “Are you horny?”

She blushes so deeply that he’s afraid she might burst into flames. “Yes,” she whispers, sounding almost furious about it. “Yes and I tried to - y’know, help myself out - but I couldn’t stop thinking about … about us, and all those weeks we were trying, and it just isn’t the same.”

Jughead licks his lips and grins wordlessly at her.

“Shut _up,_ ” she says, annoyed, pushing at his cheek with her hand. “Don’t make fun of me, you don’t under - _mpff_.”

He cuts her off with a kiss, raising himself to a seated position and holding her tightly against him. He intends for it to be soft at first, but Betty’s response to him is feverish and hard, so he gives back in kind. His hands slide up the back of her shirt and unclasp the bralette, which with her help he manages to shove to the side.

The noise she makes when he fills his hands with her swollen breasts is something that he wishes he could record and listen to on repeat for the rest of his life. “They’re sensitive,” she mumbles against his mouth.

Jughead rolls them gently in his hands, brushing his thumbs against the peaks, and grins against the gasp she gives. “Excellent,” he breathes, squeezing again.

“Don’t tease me,” she complains, rolling her hips against his.

“Me not tease _you?_ ” he asks, slipping his palms to her back and supporting her as he turns them so she’s laying against the mattress. He sheds his boxers and then lays down just beside her, on his side, and presses a long kiss to her mouth. “I missed this,” he murmurs, softly enough so that maybe she won’t hear, before moving his mouth down her body.

But then she lifts her hips, helping his hands discard her underwear, and she breathes, “Me too” as he props her hips up with a folded pillow. Jughead kisses the inside of her knee, squeezing her leg, and covers her body with his again.

“Let me know if something doesn’t feel right,” Jughead quietly requests, sucking gentle hickies onto her breasts before his lips find her baby bump. He swallows and pauses his ministrations on her chest, instead spreading his palms flat against the swell, and gingerly touches his lips to her stomach. “Cover your eyes, baby girl,” he whispers, then shifts upward on the bed and slides in in tandem with Betty’s pleasured hiss.

 

 

tbc.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which the authors take a mild geographic detour. fair warning, this one got slightly away from us length wise.

After her school lets out for the holiday break, Betty hangs around the city for a few more days while Jughead finishes up his slew of fundraising work so that they can drive back to Riverdale together. They’re sharing a rental car, and they’re supposed to share the actual _driving_ , too, but Betty doesn’t sleep well the previous night - Jughead’s out late at an event, and she tosses and turns in his bed until he finally gets home and slips beneath the covers next to her - so she falls asleep while they’re still in city traffic, and doesn’t wake until the car’s speed begins to slow after they’ve passed the sign that announces _Riverdale: The Town with Pep!_

“I was supposed to drive the second half,” she says groggily, straightening up in the passenger seat and wincing as she rubs at her sore neck.

“Right, because I’m going to wake a pregnant woman from her nap and insist that she take over the driving.” Jughead glances over at her as he comes to a stop at an intersection. “You get a good couple hours in?”

“Yes,” she admits. “Let me drive on the way back.”

“I’ll let you take the first shift,” he bargains. “How’s the kiddo?”

“Napping, too, I think,” Betty says as they turn onto Elm. A block away, she can spot a snowman in the yard of her childhood home, a sure sign that Polly and the twins have already arrived.

Jughead parks by the curb in front of the Cooper house. He circles the car to give her a hand getting out, but Betty hauls herself out of her seat before he can get there. She slides him a look. Despite having absolutely no obligation to do so, he’s been taking really wonderful care of her, when she needs it - and sometimes when she doesn’t. His concern is sweet, and she knows that he’s invested in the baby’s wellbeing, but sometimes he just acts like - well, like such a _dad_. It’s not something she’s really let herself dwell on, and she pushes the thought to the back of her mind yet again when he takes a step back, letting her close her door and make her way toward the trunk by herself.

He does, however, take her suitcase out of the car and carry it up the stairs to the front door. She follows after him, huddled into her new maternity coat, breathing in the smog-free Riverdale air.

Jughead sets her bag down and offers her a little smile. “Have a good time with your family,” he says, lifting one eyebrow to acknowledge that Betty’s been whining about enduring forced holiday interactions with her mother for a week now. “And… ” He touches her arm. “Call me if you need anything, okay? No matter how small.”

“I’ll be fine, Juggie,” she promises, smiling back at him. “Say hi to your dad for me.”

“I will.”

It seems like the conversation should end there, but it doesn’t; Jughead keeps standing there with her by the door, looking as though he’d like to say more.

“I’m good, Jughead,” Betty tells him firmly. She touches her belly. “And so is this girl. We’re going to see each other in, like… three days.”

“I know,” he says. His voice is low, and he breathes a mirthless laugh before he adds, “Just feels weird to leave you.”

Betty’s brow furrows, but before she can even begin to think of a response, Jughead shakes his head as if doing so will clear it and flashes her a fleeting smile.

“Merry Christmas, Betts,” he says, and heads back down the walkway without waiting for a response. Betty watches his retreating form with her brow still creased. Part of her wants to call after him, but she’s not sure what she’d say. He gets into the rental and the baby turns over, a newer sensation that still takes Betty by surprise every time.

“I know,” she murmurs to her daughter, and rubs her belly before she lifts her fist to knock on the door.

It swings open a moment later, revealing her mother, who is wearing one of her holiday aprons, this one printed with gingerbread men. Alice is wearing her polite, hostess smile when she opens the door, but it melts off of her face and gives way to shining eyes as she looks at her daughter.

“Oh, Betty,” she says, her voice a bit thick as she lays both hands against Betty’s bump. “My little girl,” she says on a sigh, and there might be a touch of disappointment in those words, but it’s nowhere near as strong as the mixture of amazement and affection. She wraps Betty up in a hug, the door still wide open, letting cold air into the house, and tears have gathered in Betty’s eyes before she’s even registered the need to cry.

“It’s a girl,” she whispers to her mother.

“How wonderful,” Alice says as they release each other, her words earnest. “Oh - Elizabeth, come inside, that wind is terrible…” She ushers Betty into the foyer, reaches out to grab the suitcase, and then shuts the door. “A baby girl,” she says with something like disbelief, her eyes on Betty’s rounded belly as Betty shrugs off her coat.

JJ and Libby come skidding around the corner from the living room in their sock feet, eyes bright and cheeks pink.

“Aunt B!” Libby says. “Your baby’s a girl?”

“That’s right,” Betty says. She’d told Polly about the baby a couple weeks prior - her sister was about as baffled as their mother had been, but at least she’d attempted to be supporitve, and she said the twins were excited to have a new cousin.

“Yes!” Libby cheers, pumping a fist into the air. “We’ll be even,” she tells her brother. “You and Montgomery, me and the baby.”

JJ sighs and says, morosely, “Hi, Aunt B.”

“Hey there,” Betty tells him, trying to hide her amused smile. “Are you two still calling your new cousin Montgomery? Word on the street is that he’d prefer to go by Monty.”

Polly appears behind her children, then, clucking her tongue. “Troublemaker,” she admonishes Betty; she undoubtedly knows how strongly Cheryl is opposed to nicknames. She nods to Betty’s stomach and adds, “In more ways than one.”

“Hi, Poll,” Betty greets her as the twins, bored of this interaction, run off to play.

“Hi,” Polly replies as they reach out to hug each other. The baby kicks, and Polly pulls back with a laugh. “Hi to you, too,” she tells Betty’s bump. “Did I hear you say there’ll be another girl in the family?”

Betty nods, her smile stretching into a grin. “Yes.”

“I still think this is a bit of a crazy plan,” Polly sighs. “But I know you’ll be such a good mother to that little soccer player of yours.” She glances over at Alice. “Right, Mom?”

Betty can’t quite read the expression on her mother’s face - the little twitch of one corner of Alice’s mouth, the quirk of her brow that quickly gives way to smoothness again. She appears to breathe in deeply before she says, “Of course.”

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It’s strange to be back in the room she slept in as a child with her own baby growing inside her. Betty plucks the old polaroids out of the rim of her vanity mirror and loses herself to her memories: in one photo she’s very young, standing with her sister, the two of them wearing matching outfits; in another, her eleven-year-old face is smushed between Archie’s, whose eyes are full of barely contained laughter, and Jughead’s, whose smile is subdued but genuine, and she can see in her own face that she’s on the cusp of a giggle fit; another photo shows her holding JJ when he was a newborn, her arms a little stiff and unsure but her expression brimming with love; the last photo is from prom and features her standing with Trev, her hand against his chest, his arm around her waist.

She keeps the picture in her hands as she sits down on her bed. She’d loved him, then. She knows she did. Maybe it was puppy love, or love that just couldn’t quite thrive after high school - whatever it was, it doesn’t compare to her love for the child she’s carrying. She supposes that there’s nothing that rivals that primal, maternal kind of love, but she’d like to believe that there’s a kind of romantic love that can measure up closely. If there is, it ultimately wasn’t what she had with Trev.

Betty tucks the photos into a drawer of her vanity that houses the old, nude-pink lipsticks she used to favour in high school (along with one fire-engine-red shade her mother would never let her wear), heads into the washroom to brush her teeth and wash her face, and then returns to her bedroom to change into pyjamas. She’s in midst of rubbing one of the lotions Jughead got her over her belly when her phone rings, his name appearing on the screen.

She’s already smiling when she answers and says, “Hey,” fully expecting that he’s calling for an overprotective check-in.

“Hey, Betts.” His voice sounds tired and gruff. “How’s home?”

“Pretty good. Lib and JJ are really excited about the baby. How’s your dad?”

Jughead releases a long, heavy sigh that Betty can feel in her own chest. “Not here.”

“What?”

“He’s up in Montreal doing god knows what. He wasn’t here when I got home, so I went down to the Wyrm about an hour ago to see if he was there, and Hogeye said he left two days ago. Apparently he forgot I was coming. And also forgot about fucking _Christmas_. It’s bullshit, it’s probably - he probably didn’t want yet another holiday sitting at that sad table with me, missing my mom and JB - ”

There’s a short pause, and Betty opens her mouth to speak, but Jughead keeps talking before she can even offer a sympathetic murmur of his name.

In a voice that’s slightly more restrained, he says, “Anyway, I don’t - I’m not going to hang out in that trailer by myself over Christmas, so I’m going to head back to the city. I was thinking I could drop the car off with you, and I’ll take the train - or I could even come back and pick you up, if you wanted - ”

“Jug,” she interrupts softly. “Don’t - I get why you want to leave, and I’m - I’m so sorry about your dad, but… I don’t want you to go back to Brooklyn and hang out by yourself in our apartment, either.”

“It’s better than staying here.”

Betty bites her bottom lip harder than she means to, so hard that it hurts. “Juggie, come over,” she says after a beat of silence.

“Now?”

“Yeah. We’ll… figure your holiday plans out, together.”

“Betty,” he sighs.

“Please. I really want to give you a hug.”

The line is quiet for a long moment, and then Jughead says, “Okay. Yeah, okay.”

“Okay,” Betty echoes, relieved. “See you soon?”

“See you soon,” he confirms, and they hang up.

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He calls her again about fifteen minutes later, and Betty snatches up the phone quickly, worried that he’s change his mind. “Hi,” she says.

“Hey,” he replies. “I’m outside. Do you - should I come to the front door? It’s after ten-thirty.”

His words give Betty pause - she hadn’t really considered the late hour, or the fact that her niece and nephew are sleeping in the basement rec room, or the creaky staircase she’d have to tread, twice, were she to go collect him at the door.

“Probably not,” she admits.

There’s a trace of a smile in Jughead’s voice when he says, “The best laid plans.”

Betty considers the layout of her room for a moment, and then says, “You could come through my window.”

“Your _second floor_ window?”

“Yeah. There’s a ladder in the garage - or at least, there used to be, and my dad didn’t take much with him when he moved out, so it’s probably still there.” She wracks her brain for an alternative solution and comes up with nothing. “I know it’s kind of a ridiculous plan - ”

“We’re all about ridiculous plans these days, you and me,” Jughead says. “I’ll get the ladder. If I fall and die, please tell the baby that my novel definitely would’ve been a best seller, if not for the fact that my tragic ladder accident left it unfinished.”

Betty ducks her head as she laughs. “Deal.”

He raps on her windowpane with his knuckles a few moments later, and Betty slides the window up, the winter-night air hitting her skin and making her shiver.

“Hey there, Juliet,” Jughead says wryly, and she reaches out a hand to help him clamber through the window and onto the window seat. “I feel like a teenager,” he says when he gets his feet firmly on the floor.

Betty holds her index finger up in front of her lips. “Sorry,” she whispers.

“Wasn’t complaining,” he whispers back. “Sometimes it’s good for my old soul to feel young.”

Betty lifts a hand to his cold cheek. “How’re you doing, Juggie?”

He gives his head a minute shake and rests his hand against the side of her belly. “How’s this girl doing?” he asks, instead of answering her question.

Betty makes a face at the still-strange feeling of the baby flipping over. “She moves so much when you’re around. Do you think she knows your voice?”

“Maybe,” he says slowly, running his hand over her stomach. “I think you should be sleeping, little one,” he tells the bump.

The baby kicks in response and Betty breathes a laugh. “Rebel without a cause.” His hand shifts over her belly, feeling for another movement, and she says, “Jug… I’m sorry. About everything.”

He shrugs, a rough movement that reminds her of him as a teenager, leaning against a locker with a brooding look on his face. “Not your fault.”

“I just know that…” She runs her tongue over her teeth as she takes a moment to find the right words. “That when he does stuff like this, your dad - you think it reflects on you somehow. Like maybe _you’re_ not enough for him, or maybe you’ll turn out just like him, but those things aren’t true. You’re more than that, Jughead,” she says, her voice growing even softer. “And you’re worth more than that. His mistakes, they’re not - they’re not _in_ you, like you think they are. You didn’t even sign up to be anyone’s father, and even as a… I don’t know, a dad-adjacent figure in this baby’s life, you’re incredible. You’re _present_. She’s not even here yet, and she’s so lucky to have you. And so am I.”

Jughead’s expression, as he looks at her, is somewhat scrunched, like he’s feeling tortured, or maybe even like he wants to cry. “Thank you, Betty,” he says, folding his arms around her.

She hugs him back tightly. “You should stay,” she whispers against his ear. “Have Christmas with me.”

“I don’t want to interrupt your time with your family.”

“You won’t be,” she promises. “Stay.”

Her hands clutch loosely at the back of his flannel shirt, and his fingers comb slowly through her hair. He doesn’t say no.

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Betty falls asleep that night with Jughead’s body curled around hers, his hand cradling her belly, and tears on her pillowcase. She’s been so determined to forge her own path, and in doing so, to forge her own family - but, despite how much they annoy her sometimes, she’s never felt abandoned by the family she was born into. Even though her parents divorced after high school, she still talks to her father on a regular basis, and sees him when she can. She’s never felt left behind like she knows Jughead so often does. She’s never felt like she wasn’t a good enough reason to stick around.

Having a baby, without a partner, felt like striking out to Betty. It occurs to her, with the feeling of Jughead’s breath warm on her neck, that making this baby with her might’ve been the opposite for him: something that he’s been brought into. And she wants that for him. She wants him to feel like his daughter’s fierce kicks against his palms mean something - something like _I need you._ The thought produces an odd feeling in her throat that persists until she slips into a dream.

When she wakes up, Jughead’s still spooning her. His hand has slipped beneath her shirt and his fingers are ghosting over the swell of her stomach, and he’s hard against her. Betty shifts her hips a little and feels him press against her ass.

She rolls over onto her back and meets his sleepy eyes with her own. “M’sorry, Betts,” he mumbles, though he doesn’t _look_ all that sorry, and Betty isn’t, either. She undoes the buttons on her penguin-printed pyjama top and moves his hand up to one of her breasts.

“ _God_ , your tits, Betts,” he breathes, so quietly that she wonders if he even meant to say it aloud. She arches into his touch when he shifts to lean over her and closes his mouth around one of her nipples through her bralette. He bites lightly and she keens; Jughead’s hand flies up to cover her mouth.

“Quiet, baby,” he whispers.

“Jug, please,” she whispers back from behind his hand, her words strained.

“Shh.” He removes his hand and kisses her as he helps her out of her PJ shirt. “You want my mouth?” he asks her between kisses. “Or you want me inside you?”

“Both,” she says as she pushes at the waistband of his boxers, and he grins against her lips.

He pulls down her pyjama pants and panties and kisses her calves and her thighs until Betty’s trembling with anticipation and fisting her fingers in his hair. Her view of him is blocked by her belly, so when he finally presses his tongue flat against her, it’s a surprise - a surprise so good it takes all of her self-control not to let out a cry that would wake her family.

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As if they’re ten years younger than they are, Jughead leaves Betty’s bedroom through her window, puts the ladder away, and then ‘arrives’ at the Coopers’ front door as if he hadn’t been in the house all night. Betty invites him in, pretending he didn’t kiss her five minutes earlier, and tells her mother that he’ll be staying for breakfast.

“Are you Aunt B’s boyfriend?” JJ asks, with the unedited curiosity of a child.

The back of Betty’s neck feels hot. Jughead says, “I’m her roommate.”

“Are you going to live with the baby, too?”

“That’s the plan.”

His answer makes one of Polly’s eyebrows arch. “Are you well-stocked with earplugs?”

“I got him a jumbo pack for Christmas,” Betty tells her sister breezily, and leads Jughead into the dining room.

Breakfast is elaborate; she’d expect no less from her mother. There are piles of chocolate chip pancakes, cereal boxes lined up on the table, fruit salad in a pretty serving bowl. Betty pulls up an extra chair for Jughead, and they settle in to eat.

“How’s your father, Jughead?” Alice asks when there’s a lull in the conversation, and Betty shoots her mother her best murderous look, which Alice either doesn’t see or chooses to ignore.

Jughead swallows a mouthful of pancake. “I’m sure he’s good. He’s not in town right now.”

Alice goes still, the pitcher of maple syrup frozen in her hand above her pancakes. “Christmas is tomorrow.”

Jughead nods. His mouth makes several shapes before he says, “Looks like we’re not really celebrating this year.” Betty reaches over surreptitiously to lay her hand on his knee.

“Of course you are,” her mother says. “You’ll have Christmas with us. We’ll be having dinner at one p.m. sharp. Feel free to arrive any time after noon.”

His eyes widen slightly, his eyebrows lifting. Betty squeezes his knee and smiles. “What a _great_ idea, Mom. Don’t you think, Juggie?”

He turns to her, seems to study her face carefully, and nods. “Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Cooper.” He clears his throat and nods to Betty’s empty mug. “You want more decaf?”

She nods. “I’ll get it in a minute.”

“No, you sit, I’ll grab it,” he tells her, reaching for the mug and heading into the kitchen to refill it.

The conversation shifts to what Santa will be bringing (“Santa isn’t _real_ , Grandma,” Libby tells Alice pityingly, like she regrets having to be the one to break this news), and Jughead sets Betty’s fresh cup of coffee down in front of her as he slips back into his seat.

“Thank you,” she tells him softly, beneath JJ’s monologue on the new, _coolest ever_ gaming system he wants.

“No problem.” He dips his chin toward her belly; she’s smoothing both hands over it slowly, leaning back in her chair. “Is she moving?”

Betty nods. “Yeah, like crazy. She’s a morning person.”

“Uh oh,” he says, and she lets out a little laugh.

“Yeah...we’re in for it,” she says, and revels for just an instant in the softness of his smile.

“Betty, would you help me clear the table?” Alice asks.

Immediately, Jughead moves to get up. “I can help.”

“How kind of you, Jughead,” Alice says evenly, “But I’d like my daughter’s opinion on a recipe as well.”

Betty makes her signature _sorry my mom is being Like This_ face at Jughead and gets to her feet. She’s not big enough that she really needs any assistance, but his hand presses briefly against her back nonetheless.

She collects her plate and Jughead’s and follows her mother to the kitchen. “Is it the apple pie?” she asks, putting the dishes in the sink to rinse them. “Because I do think there was two much cinnamon last ye - ”

“Is Jughead the father of your child?” Alice interrupts.

Betty nearly drops a handful of cutlery. “I - why would you think - ”

“Please, Elizabeth, don’t attempt to play coy. That man is not acting like a roommate. He’s acting like a first-time father.”

Betty flushes, running water over a plate for something to do with her hands.

“Betty.”

With a sigh, she shuts off the tap and turns toward her mother. “Yes,” she says quietly. “He’s the baby’s father. But we’re not together.”

Alice surprises her by not demanding a series of explanations for all of Betty’s life choices and asking, instead, “Why not?”

Betty twists a dishtowel in her hands. “It’s complicated, Mom.”

“Is it?” Alice asks. The arch of her brows is, for once, not intimidating, but merely inquisitive. “That hoodlum is gone for you, Elizabeth. If you feel the same way, it can’t possibly be that complex.” She takes the towel out of Betty’s hands and adds, “And don’t be ridiculous. The pie needs _at least_ a heaping teaspoon of cinnamon.”

 

* * *

 

Realistically, Jughead knows that he should have seen this coming.

His father has never been _great_ with holidays: Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving. Or birthdays: his, Jellybean’s, their mother’s. Or, really, _regular_ days: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday - but there was some kind of stupid optimism inside Jughead that has arisen with Betty’s pregnancy that had made him think maybe, just _maybe_ , this year would be different.

And it is, but not because of FP.

No; the difference is _here,_ in the girl with the blonde ponytail whose hand is slipped into his. Sure, she’s holding onto him because the path to Pop’s Chocklit Shoppe is a bit icy and she’s just shy of twenty weeks pregnant, but she’s pregnant with _his_ child, and that is something that, regardless of the circumstance, five or twelve or seventeen year old Jughead could have never, ever imagined.

“I’ve been craving a milkshake from Pop’s for literally months,” Betty sighs, taking steadied steps on the sidewalk, careful although they’re already walking somewhat slow. “I know breakfast wasn’t that long ago, either, but I hope you won’t judge me when we get there.”

Jughead looks over at her with a raised eyebrow. “Did you forget who you’re talking to?”

She laughs at that and threads her arm fully through his. Jughead returns the smile she’s giving him, and they turn a corner to head south toward Pop’s, his feet kicking snow and gravel into her path to provide friction against the ice.

(He remembers Betty, eighteen years old and stunningly beautiful in her cap and gown, grinning up at Trevor Brown as they walked arm-in-arm toward the diner for a post-graduation milkshake. He’d been there too, kind of - watching from a corner booth out the window, having already returned his cap and gown shortly after the ceremony. There hadn’t been much of a reason to keep it on; Fred had snapped a photo of he and Archie, but otherwise, nobody was coming to take his picture. His dad had still been in jail (on the tail end of his sentence for being involved with Jason Blossom’s murder), his mother hadn’t called him back, and his foster parents had ended their relationship with him as soon as he’d turned eighteen the fall of his senior year.

None of it mattered, though; he was where he was supposed to be, set away, and the only person that he would’ve wanted to pull him out had walked through the door with her boyfriend’s hands on her hips.)

“Haven’t been to Pop’s in awhile,” Jughead comments, glancing around the parking lot. There are more cars than he remembers there being, and fresh paint on the outside of the building. Business must be good, he thinks, and that makes him smile.

(That day had been the beginning of the end, when the hope that perhaps Betty and Trev were just a high-school thing had died, because as they piled into a booth by the counter, just before they’d spotted him and waved him over to join them, Jughead could hear them talking about college and Skype and visits.)

“Me neither,” Betty replies, sliding her arm out of Jughead’s. “But there’s a large vanilla milkshake with whipped cream calling my name.”

“Can I have your cherry?” Jughead teases.

“You’re a little late for that,” Betty says automatically. She stops in her tracks a second later and claps a hand to her mouth, like she’s shocked that those words had come out of her mouth. “Ohmigod. Sorry, that was crude.”

Jughead smiles at her reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Betts, I know you’re not a virgin,” he jokes, pointing out her belly.

(He remembers the day after P.E. when Chuck Clayton had clapped Trev on the shoulder in the locker room, announced that he was now A Man, if not quite yet The Man, and offered crude congratulations on ‘bagging Betty Cooper’. Jughead also remembers how, before he could even turn his clenched fists into some kind of losing but well-intentioned action, quintessential nice-guy Trev had punched Chuck in the stomach and told him in no uncertain terms that he was never to speak about Betty like that again.

He remembers thinking that while it wasn’t _him,_ at least Betty was with somebody who cared about her that much.

Later, as he shared an ill-advised kiss with Toni at the White Wyrm, he realized that what once had been a deep, stabbing pit in his stomach was transforming itself into only a dull ache, and that made him sadder than anything: the fact that maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could truly get over Betty Cooper.

He stopped kissing Toni, and he never tried to look away from that pain again.)

“Funny,” Betty replies, poking his side. “Let’s not forget the role you played in making this bump happen. And I hope you brought your wallet, you’re buying.”

Jughead gives a mocking curtsy as he holds the door for Betty, then follows her in. The familiar chimes announce their presence, and before he can be hit with any more memories about the endless number of times that he's heard that same noise, Pop Tate appears from behind the counter.

“Jughead! Betty!” he exclaims, wiping his hands on his apron and coming toward them for a short embrace. “Nice to see you kids back in town. How are things going in ...”

He stops mid-sentence, the words fading on the tail end of an audible ellipsis. Jughead follows his line of sight and realizes that Betty has shrugged her coat off, revealing an obvious bump beneath her cheery red sweater.

“Is that what I think it is?” Pop asks, a grin appearing a second later.

Betty blushes and touches her palm to her belly. “Yes,” she confirms. “It’s - I’m pregnant.” She smiles at Pop.

“That’s excellent news!” Pop says, clasping his hands together. “Although - forgive me, Betty, but your mother had told me you and Trevor were no longer together.”

Jughead watches as Betty bites her lip and glances down to her abdomen. “Yes, Trev and I split a while ago, Pop,” she responds. Jughead is momentarily afraid that some kind of suppressed emotion had been touched on, but when she raises her head she’s smiling. “The baby is … someone else’s.” Her eyes slide to Jughead, who tries and fails to keep himself from beaming.

Pop catches on instantly, his eyes widening at the implication. “You two…”

“That part is under wraps, Pop,” Jughead quickly puts in. “So if you could keep that under your hat, we - Betty would appreciate it.”

“Of course, of course,” he replies, briefly serious. Then, he claps one hand on each of their shoulders and announces, “Milkshakes on the house!”

“Aww, thank you Pop,” Betty says, giving him a one-armed hug and then stepping a few feet away to sit down in a booth.

Jughead moves to follow her after nodding his agreement with her thanks, but Pop stops him and pats his back. “Good on you, Jug,” he says with another broad grin, genuinely enthused. “You finally got your girl. I’m happy for you.”

Jughead swallows, hoping Betty didn’t overhear that, and manages a smile in return. “Thanks, Pop,” he says, awkwardly tilting his face away from Betty’s line of sight. Pop, more than perhaps anyone but Archie or Toni, had borne witness to what he can now admit was some pathetic, grade-A pining on his behalf: lurking in the corner booth, watching Trev and Betty, or sitting at the counter, typing away on the manuscript that he’s still yet to finish as a means to _forget_ about Trev and Betty.

“Okay, milkshakes coming right up!” Pop says, turning around and marching briskly to the back. Jughead bites his lip for a minute, then tries to neutralize his facial expression and goes to join Betty.

She’s picking at her nails, but looks up when he slides in across from her. “You think he remembers my favourite flavour?”

“Betty, you ordered five vanilla milkshakes a week for at least ten years,” Jughead replies. “I’m sure he remembers.”

“Hey, I sometimes had chocolate or strawberry!” she protests, giggling.

“If someone would share theirs with you,” he points out.

Betty sticks her tongue out. “That someone was never you,” she teases. “So possessive over your food, always.”

“That’s the Jones way.” Jughead shrugs. “When you eat canned beans stolen from the school cafeteria for three months, you learn to resource guard.”

Betty’s smile falls at the mention of those months, the ones he’d spent homeless: sleeping first at the drive-in and then under the stairs at school, before Archie had discovered him and the Andrews had offered him their finest air mattress for a few weeks. She’d tried to talk to him about it, shortly after his situation had been revealed, but Jughead had been in no mood to accept anyone else’s brand of pity, even well-meaning like he knows her was.

(That same day, he’d seen her crying to Trev by the quad, and he’s always wondered whether it was about him.)

“I still wish you … that you’d let me help you, or something,” Betty says quietly, smiling up at the waitress when she places two milkshakes on the table.

Jughead swipes a fingertip across the whipped cream on his and licks it off. “There was nothing you could have done,” he says dismissively. There’s a hurt look in her eyes now, an old kind that he barely recognizes, and he suddenly regrets even mentioning it.

“Juggie, you were sleeping at the _drive-in,_ ” she insists, staring down at her milkshake. “Eating stolen food or - I don’t know, probably not eating at all. You’re my _oldest friend._ Of course there was something I could have done.”

He sighs and reaches across the table to touch her hand. “Betts, you offered. I’m the one who didn’t want to talk to you about it, okay? It’s on me. Not you.”

She nods, still looking down. “Why didn’t you?” she asks in a near-whisper.

It’s Jughead’s turn to look away. This time, he picks the window, where cheerful decorations are partially blocking the view of the snow-laden parking lot. “Mr. Andrews had already given me a bed,” he finally says. “I didn’t want to be indebted to anyone else. And you’d just started going out with Trev; I didn’t want to bring you down.” He finally looks back at her, already mentally kicking himself for the unshed tears in her eyes, and forces himself to smile. “But it turned out okay, Betts. I’m good. So don’t dwell on all that shit. I shouldn’t have even brought it up.” He nudges her foot with his when she still won’t smile, and adds, “If you want, in homage, you can make sure that you never feed your little girl canned beans.”

That makes her laugh a bit, and Betty nods, finally raising her gaze to his. “Okay,” she agrees. “She’ll never have canned beans.”

“Good.” Jughead eats the cherry off the top of his milkshake, then begins to drink in the swirling strawberry flavour. It’s cold and creamy and thick and so unlike anything that he’s ever been able to find in New York; maybe, he thinks, it’s the taste of home.

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When they’re finished and getting ready to leave, Pop comes to say goodbye. He gives them each another friendly hug, then tells Betty, “When that little guy or gal is old enough, their first milkshake is on the house, too.”

“It’s a girl,” Betty tells him, smiling. She tugs a woolen hat over her ears. “Thanks, Pop.”

“Anytime, kids. Don’t be strangers!” he says, and with another wave, they leave.

They start walking along the sidewalk with vague aimlessness - not headed toward the Cooper home, but not anywhere in particular, either. At least, until Betty clears her throat and breaks the comfortable silence that had settled over them.

“Jug?”

He glances over, his hands shoved in the pockets of his lined denim jacket. “Yeah?”

“Um, I -” She presses her lips together briefly, a look of uncertainty passing over her face. “When we were at Pop’s, can I ask - I heard him say something about ‘you got your girl’.” Her cheeks flush red. “It’s maybe none of my business, but was - was he talking about … who was he talking about?”

_Shit._

Jughead shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Betty stops walking and places a hand on his forearm to still his steps, too. “It does,” she says, a sort of quiet insistence in her voice. “I feel like it does.”

 _Too much,_ he wants to tell her, _it matters too much._

Instead, he says, “Let me show you something.”

Ten minutes later, they’re on the edge of Riverdale High’s football field, beside the stands, just inside the wire fence. Jughead swallows the discomfort lodged in his throat and takes a few steps away from Betty, still arguing with himself about what he should say, or how much.

“Jughead,” Betty begins, burying her face in the scarf around her neck to protect her cheeks from the wind that whips through the empty field. “What are we doing here?”

He turns away entirely, stares at a spot on the top of the bleachers, and lets out an audible groan of frustration. “Okay, fine,” he says, spinning back around. “Do you remember when I worked for the _Blue and Gold_?”

She sits down on the edge of the bottom row of bench seats, staring up at him as he stands on the side of the field. “Yeah, of course.”

“I used to cover football games,” Jughead says, wrinkling his nose at the memory. “Scathing indictments, most of my articles were, but - yeah, theoretically, I wrote about the football games.”

“I remember that,” Betty says. “I was cheering and still trying to make sure Cheryl didn’t kick me off the squad, so I asked you to cover them so I could focus.”

He nods. “I used to come to the games, then, kind of for Archie but then also for the paper. I would stand over here in the corner, off to the side - or up there in the top corner if I was taking pictures - and I’d daydream about how great it would be when I finally had enough evidence for my ultimate take-down of the American high-school football obsession.” He gives a single laugh, then says, “And I used to come to watch you.”

Betty raises a confused eyebrow. “Well, yeah. We were cheerleaders - we were there to be watched.”

“Not like that,” Jughead replies, shaking his head. _God,_ this is harder than he imagined it would be. “I used to … Betty - I watched you because I had a crush on you.”

Her mouth opens, a cracking noise comes out, and she closes it again before finally saying, “What?”

“I had a crush on you,” Jughead repeats. “Feelings. I spent a lot of time in my own little emo world, I know, but if there was anyone that I wanted to see outside of it … it was you.” He sighs and turns to the side again, impatiently looking out at the still-empty stands, willing someone to appear to remove him from this awkward moment. “I was pretty good at hiding it, I think, but I used to spend a _lot_ of time wallowing in free refills of black coffee at Pop’s, so he knew. And that’s … that’s what he meant.”

Betty stands up. “Jug,” she whispers, slowly shaking her head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jughead shrugs. “I’m a realist, Betty. Girls like you don’t end up with guys like me. I knew that, even then.”

“That’s not -”

“Besides,” he interrupts, not wanting her to feel guilty about this. It’s not her fault; it’s not even her _problem._ It’s his. “When you stopped liking Archie, Trev asked you out, and you guys seemed … I dunno, good together. He made you happy, he treated you well. I wasn’t going to screw that up. So I just found distractions, and … life goes on.”

Betty’s lips part again. Her eyes are wide in what seems almost like horror, and she croaks, “The Serpents?”

“They were a part of that,” Jughead admits. “They were an escape. But that was also way more about me and my daddy issues.” He walks over to her and holds her mitten-covered hands in his bare ones, squeezing reassuringly. “I’m just telling you because you asked. I know you, Betts, so I’m asking you, don’t do your regular thing. Please. Don’t feel bad, or - look, I was happy for you. I _am_ happy for you. Unrequited love is everywhere, every day, all around the world, and for the most part, we all move on. Okay?”

Betty stares up at him with an expression that pains him to witness - sadness, surprise, sympathy, all in one - and looks like she wants to say something. But then, perhaps heeding his wish, she simply nods quietly.

“It’s cold,” he continues, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get you and Betty Junior home.”

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Betty is withdrawn for the rest of the evening. He worries about her always - it’s sort of a default now, some kind of horrible biological _insistence_ in his bloodstream - but it’s heightened tonight after his stupid ill-timed half-confession at the high school. Part of him thinks that he should have told her everything _(I liked you, I loved you, and I still love you)_ , but an even bigger part of him thinks that he just fucked everything up: their living arrangement, their friendship, and especially the tenuous, delicate balance of co-parenthood that he thought maybe they were moving toward.

Jughead spends the late afternoon playing snow-baseball with JJ in the Coopers’ backyard, then joins them for Christmas Eve dinner. It’s a fairly light meal - designed to offset the calories of the following day, Alice had said - and he thinks that maybe he’ll grab a burger from Pop’s on his way back to his dad’s trailer. Betty has been quiet around him since they returned from their walk; not angry, not sad, but impossibly, horribly quiet, and from that Jughead assumes it would be best if he didn’t spend the night.

He bids a goodnight to Polly, Alice, and the twins, then kisses Betty’s cheek when all of them walk him to the door and tells her that he’ll see her tomorrow.

He gets two blocks away when a buzzing in his pocket makes him stop.

_**Please don’t spend the night alone.** _

Jughead types out a rapid response. _**Do you want me to come up again?**_

Her reply is a simple _**yes.**_

Jughead is beneath her window in two minutes, the ladder propped up carefully against the siding. He climbs up cautiously, not liking the ice and the height and the general lean of the whole thing, but she’s asked him to come, and he will do anything for her.

Betty is waiting for him when he steps through the window. He feels slightly more adept at it the second time around, but his entry is still less than smooth, and he knows she’s biting back a laugh.

“Hi,” she says softly, looking ethereal in the soft glow of her bedside light. She’s wearing the same pajama pants and top as she had been that morning, but her shirt is already unbuttoned for him, revealing the bralette he’d nearly torn with his teeth and the swollen belly where his daughter is.

“You look beautiful,” Jughead tells her.

Betty’s hands rest on her stomach. “She’s kicking again.”

Jughead gives a small smile at that news. “She’s a firecracker. Like her mom.”

She shakes her head. “Like her dad,” she whispers. “Jug, come here.”

He steps toward her cautiously; he is constantly, forever, _always_ unsure of what she wants from him. “Everything okay?”

Betty takes his hands in hers and presses them to her stomach. “She loves you,” she whispers. “I can feel it. And she … Jug, I’m going to put your name on the birth certificate.” She takes a deep breath, then exhales, long and slow. “You’re her father, and I want it to be official.”

“Betty,” Jughead says, searching her face. “Are you sure? I mean - look, I’m going to be there for her in whatever way you want me to be, no matter what a piece of paper says. You don’t have to change your plans.”

 _(I want this,_ he wants to say. _I want this more than anything in the entire world,_ but he doesn’t.)

“I didn’t change my plans,” she says gently, cupping his face in her hands. She stares at him, then gives a little sigh and says, “ _You_ did.”

“What-”

He doesn’t get to finish the question. Betty kisses him soundly, parts his lips with her tongue, and presses her body against him, belly and all. Jughead sighs against her mouth and helps her push his jacket off his shoulders. They part very briefly - him to remove his shirt, her to unbuckle his belt - and then come back together against the edge of the mattress. She kisses him languidly and without hurry, a stark contrast to the feverish rush of her palms over the planes of his back, and he struggles to match her pace as his own hands slide to remove her bralette and push her pants over her hips.

“How do you want me?” Jughead breathes, kneeling as he drags her underwear down her legs.

Betty shakes her head and pulls him up with a gentle tug on his hair. “How do you want _me?”_ she whispers, smoothing her fingertips across his forehead.

( _Always, every way, forever._ )

“On top,” he decides, shuffling around on her bed until his back is against the headboard. She climbs up too, settling with one leg on either side of his hips. He fills his hands with her breasts and groans at the feel of them. “I want these right here,” he continues, as she works her hand over him. “And I want this -” he touches her belly - “I want this - oh _christ,_ baby, I want …”

_Forever, forever, forever--_

“You can,” she promises, as she lowers herself onto him and presses his face into her chest. “We’ll love you. We’ll be yours.”

 

 

tbc.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the love. We hope you like this chapter.

Once they’ve traded off driving duties at a rest stop, Betty spends the remainder of the trip back to the city with her head against the window, pretending to sleep. Since Pop’s, since the football field at Riverdale High, since Jughead gripped her hips in her childhood bedroom as she chanted his name in a blissed-out whisper - things have felt a little delicate between the two of them. She’s scared that if she pulls too hard, or pushes too far, everything they’re building will fall apart, and she doesn’t want that. She knows he loves her baby - _their_ baby - and that has to be the most important thing, that has to be the thing she keeps.

The revelation he’d handed to her by the bleachers keeps ringing through her mind. Jughead Jones had a crush on her. She’d never really let herself look at him that way; after the disaster that was her heartfelt confession of feelings to Archie, she’d valued her friendship with Jughead even more, cherished the way it was untainted by that sort of awkwardness… but now, it turns out that her interpretation of their history isn’t entirely correct. There _were_ feelings involved in their friendship. His feelings.

She wonders when it ended, that childhood crush of his. She knows it was after high school, he’s told her that much. Maybe it was when they went their separate ways after graduation, to separate cities. Maybe it took a bit longer, and he didn’t fully close the lid on that box until she and Trev announced their engagement.

Or maybe -

Maybe it never did. Maybe those feelings, however deep they run, whatever they comprise, are still around.

(A flash of Veronica’s face, eyes rolling dramatically, appears at the forefront of Betty’s thoughts. _I_ told _you so._ )

Betty shifts a little, trying to relieve the ache in her back, and thinks of last night in her bed with him, gasping into the kiss he gave her, his hand pressed between her shoulder blades, keeping her close, as he breathed, “Look at me, baby, look at me.” His eyes were so dark, so intense, pinned to hers. It didn’t feel like sex to reduce Betty’s hormonally-induced arousal. It felt like a lot more.

“Betts, you okay?” Jughead asks, noticing that she’s moving around in her seat in search of a more comfortable position.

She sighs and opens her eyes. “Yeah. My back’s just a little sore.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, soft and sympathetic. “Only forty more minutes, if traffic’s forgiving.”

She nods, her heart giving a heavy _thump_. It’s the first time he’s called her _baby_ when they’re not naked or close to it.

“M’gonna try and get some more sleep,” she murmurs, shutting her eyes again. Her mind feels like it’s spinning.

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In the end, Betty decides to stick to the status quo, partially because she’s scared of what will happen if she disrupts it, and partially because she’s happy, and Jughead seems happy too.

She keeps sleeping in his bed most nights, far more comfortable on his mattress than she is on her own, and when she tugs at the hem of his t-shirt or slips teasing fingers into his boxers, he’s all too happy to oblige her. He gets up most days when her alarm goes off and makes coffee for them both, even though his workday starts a bit later than hers and making coffee is now double the work, since Betty’s drinking decaf. When she pads into the kitchen grumpily, he slides a hand along her belly, presses a mug into her hands, and touches a kiss to her forehead.

The baby is almost always active in the morning, stretching out her limbs in a space that’s undoubtedly starting to feel constraining to her, and as she kicks against Jughead’s hands Betty thinks, _Yeah, that’s your daddy._

She knows that they look like they’re together. When they go out to dinner, the waiter congratulations them on their future addition to their family. When they attend an infant first aid course, the instructor assumes they’re married, and neither of them bother to correct her. Once, on the subway, someone stands and taps Jughead on the arm to say, “Your wife can have my seat.”

She’s also aware that they’re _acting_ like a couple, but she’s so in her head about it she can’t even fathom how she might initiate a conversation about it. _Hey, Jughead, just to clarify what’s happening here: you got me pregnant, at my request, and now we seem to have stumbled our way into dating?_ He’s told her, through whispers in her hair when they’re in bed together, that he’s attracted to her pregnant body - maybe it’s just a primal thing, the way his hands seem drawn, like magnets, to her swollen stomach. Maybe he’s over his old crush and it’s not about _her_ , it’s about the woman who’s bearing his child. Maybe it’s presumptuous for her to think otherwise.

 _Maybe._ Everything feels like a giant maybe.

Things are busy for Betty: school is in session and her students are, as always, a handful in and of themselves; she’s got a checklist of things to purchase before she gets too close to her due date; she attends the weekly lamaze-for-single-moms class she signed up for shortly after learning she was pregnant. Time moves quickly, but whenever her mind has a moment to drift, it veers back to all those _maybes_ and tries to find some certainty.

It’s what she’s thinking of when she drifts to sleep on the couch, having promised herself that she was just resting her eyes for five minutes when she sets her students’ math tests and her glasses on the coffee table. She wakes to the feeling of Jughead’s hand on her cheek, his voice soft by her ear.

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” he says when she blinks her eyes open. He’s kneeling by the couch. “Did you have a long day?”

“Sort of,” she says around a small yawn. Her eyelids still feel heavy, and it takes her a moment to fully pull herself out of sleep’s clutches. “Mm, hi,” she sighs, resting a hand against his shoulder and sliding it down his arm before allowing it to drift over and settle against her belly. “Daddy’s home,” she tells the baby.

There’s a catch in Jughead’s breath after she says that, quiet but decidedly there. Betty smiles at him, her eyes taking in every little detail of his expression as she wonders but does not ask, _Do you still love me?_

He kisses her temple, and her cheek, and then settles his lips against her belly, pressing a kiss to it over her shirt. “Hey, little girl,” he says warmly. He drops another kiss just to side of Betty’s bellybutton. “You’re going to need a name soon, you know.”

“I think Genevieve,” Betty says, and watches Jughead try and stifle the beginnings of a frown for a moment before she adds teasingly, “You know, we’ve got to keep up with _Montgomery._ ”

He lets out a sigh of relief and rolls his eyes. “Your mother’s a jokester, you know that?” he tells her bump.

Betty rests her hand atop his where it’s cupped against the curve of her belly and threads their fingers together. “I can think of lots of things I _don’t_ want to name her. But the right name hasn’t really hit me yet.”

Jughead nods. “It will.” He leans up and kisses her, his gaze settling on her midsection again when he leans back on his heels. “I can’t wait to see her face.”

“I know,” Betty agrees quietly.

“She’s going to be so beautiful. Just like her mom.”

“I think you might be biased,” she says fondly, patting his cheek.

He turns his face into her hand. “We haven’t talked about it. If you want me there, when she’s born.”

“Of course I do, Jug. You were there for the fun part of putting her in. You get to be there for the terrifying part of pushing her out, too.”

“You’ll do great,” he says firmly. “I’ll hold your hand.”

She thumbs his bottom lip. “You sure you don’t want to pull a _Freaky Friday_ and switch bodies for the day?”

“I would if I could, baby,” he says with a smile, and she can see, in the way he’s looking at her, that he means every word.

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A Saturday night a couple weeks into her third trimester marks the first time she feels too tired and uncomfortable for sex. Jughead’s working his mouth down the column of her neck and toying with the drawstring of the pyjama pants that are sitting low on her hips when she touches a hand to his chest to stop him, saying, “Sorry, I’m just - I don’t think I’m really in the mood. I know I’ve been nothing _but_ in the mood lately, but I - ” She shifts onto her back and finds that it’s even worse than laying on her side, and groans quietly as she rolls over again.

“My back’s been hurting all _day_ and now this heartburn - ” She rubs at her chest, a couple inches below her collarbone. Ridiculously, she finds herself tearing up as she adds miserably, “I feel like I’m in a pain sandwich. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Betts,” Jughead says. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“Jug,” she huffs, looking pointedly at his erection.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” she sighs. He’s never denied her, not once, not even after his longest days. “I can - ” She reaches a hand out, but he catches it, wrapping his fingers around her wrist gently.

“Stop, baby. It’s fine.” He releases her wrist and uses his thumb to brush tears off her cheeks. “We’ll just go to sleep. What can I do to make you more comfortable? You want a back rub?”

“Could you get me a heating pad?” she asks. Her voice breaks on the last word and she really bursts into tears then, sobbing as she squeezes her eyes shut.

“Oh, honey,” Jughead says, sliding an arm around her and kissing the shell of her ear. “It’s okay. I’ll get you a heating pad, we’ll find you a comfortable position.”

“There isn’t one,” Betty weeps.

“Shh, shh,” he soothes, rubbing very lightly at her back. “Hang in there, I’ll be right back.” He kisses her cheek, sets a box of tissues on the mattress next to her, and heads out of the room.

Betty sniffles into a tissue until he returns and helps her get settled on her left side with the heating pad behind her and a pillow between her legs, a position that doesn’t feel _quite_ so awful. Without her having to ask, he gets into bed with her, slipping under the thick comforter that he always says is too warm, and turns to face her, moving in close so that her belly is pressed against his abdomen and sliding his hand up and down her arm in a steady, calming rhythm.

“I’m sorry,” Betty murmurs again when she can take a deep breath without feeling like she’s going to burst into a fresh batch of tears.

“Don’t, baby. You’re doing the heavy lifting here - literally. I don’t care that we’re not having sex tonight.” He pushes her hair out of her face and tucks it behind her ear. “Wake me up if you need anything, okay?”

It’s still fairly early, not quite ten, so Betty doesn’t fall asleep right away, despite her achy body and her tired eyes. She lets her breathing even out, swallows against the burn of acid reflux, and tries to count sheep.

A few minutes pass. The trail of Jughead’s hand up and down her arm grows slower, and eventually stops. She feels his lips against his forehead, and then the shift of the mattress, before she hears the sound of his dresser drawer sliding open.

The drawer slides closed again, and there’s some rustling of the sheets as Jughead moves. “Alright, kiddo,” he says, his voice just above a whisper. He slides his hand along Betty’s belly, carressing the skin exposed by her shirt, which is riding up. She feels the pressure of his mouth on her skin, leaving a kiss. “You ready?” Jughead asks.

A page is turned, and then Jughead begins to speak again, quiet words that Betty has a faint memory of from her own childhood.

“A mother held her new baby and very slowly rocked him,” he says. “Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And while she held him, she sang: I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always; as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.”

Betty feels like she’s going to cry again, for a wholly different reason.

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The gears that have been whirring in Betty’s mind for weeks and weeks finally go into overdrive on a Thursday. She has parent/teacher meetings, so she stays at school into the evening, and by the time she’s finally done, her feet are throbbing and she can’t wait to get home, put them up, and crack into the pint of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer. Most of her students’ parents had offered her congratulations and a couple unsolicited parenting tips, but the vice president of the PTA had looked at Betty’s heavily pregnant belly, pinched her lips together, and asked, “It’s _Miss_ Cooper, isn’t it?” and she’s eager to go deliver the rant to Jughead that she’d refrained from releasing on that mother, choosing to smile prettily instead.

The apartment is very quiet once she lets herself in the door. “Juggie?” she calls softly, breathing a grateful sigh when she finally takes off her shoes. She thinks he would’ve texted her were he going out, but she hears no signs that he’s home. She sets down her purse and tote bag and sets off out of the foyer to look for him.

She doesn’t have to go far. Three steps later, she sees that he’s sprawled out on the couch, fast asleep. A fond smile tugs at her lips at the sight. It’s a reversal - she’s been the one taking all the naps lately.

She sees that he’s got a couple books piled on the coffee table and one book open across his chest - there’s even one book sticking out from underneath the couch. She thinks he must’ve been working on some new project and tiptoes closer, intending to tidy up all the books and tuck a throw blanket around his body.

She plucks the book gently off his chest and sees that there are post-it notes attached to a few pages; curious, she looks at the title. _The Dependent Gene: The Fallacy of “Nature” vs. “Nurture.”_ Betty scrunches her nose up slightly in confusion. What non-profit would require genetics research?

Then she looks at the rest of the books.

 _Parenting with Love and Logic_ sits on the coffee table, dog-eared in several places, atop _Unconditional Parenting: Moving from Rewards and Punishments to Love and Reason._ With effort and one hand braced against the coffee table, Betty manages to bend down and grab the book that’s half-hidden under the couch.

_The Expectant Father: Facts, Tips, and Advice for Dads-to-Be._

Betty’s heart is beating in her throat. She looks at Jughead’s tranquil face and she knows, right in that moment, the answer to the question she’s been too afraid to ask.

With careful hands, she puts all four books in a neat stack on the coffee table, puts her shoes back on her tired feet, and grabs her purse and coat.

In the hallway, she calls Veronica, breathing shakily through the three ringing tones she hears before Veronica picks up.

“How are my favourite girls?” Veronica answers brightly by way of greeting. “Besides you, of course, babe,” she adds in a teasing tone, clearly talking to Cheryl.

“Veronica.” Betty swallows hard. “Can I come over?”

All teasing is gone from Veronica’s voice, replaced by a smidge of worry, when she says, “Of course.”

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She’s nearly hysterical by the time she makes it to Veronica and Cheryl’s sofa, her breath coming out in short bursts, her brain replaying a thousand memories that have suddenly shifted in their meaning. “I - ” she says, and then cuts herself off with a gasp.

“Betty.” Veronica crouches down in front of her, dark eyes wide and flooded with concern. “Betty, you need to take a deep breath. I’d tell you to put your head between your knees, but, well - ” She gestures to Betty’s stomach.

“I can try and find a paper bag,” Cheryl offers from where she’s standing a few feet away, sleepy-eyed Montgomery in her arms.

“No.” Betty forces herself to take a long breath in. “No, Cheryl, I’m okay.”

“One more breath like that,” Veronica says, patting Betty’s knee, and then looks over at her wife. They communicate silently for a moment, only in raised eyebrows, before Cheryl turns to leave the room - but not before dipping her chin in Betty’s direction as if to say _keep an eye on her._

“I’m okay,” Betty tells Veronica again after Cheryl disappears down the hallway, murmuring to the baby. “I’m okay.”

“I don’t think you are,” Veronica says. “And I’ve never been pregnant, but I feel like it’s probably not the best idea to be worked up like this. Keep breathing, nice and slow. I’ll get you some water.”

A moment later, she presses a tall glass of iced water into one of Betty’s hands, and then sits next to her on the couch, taking Betty’s other hand in both of her own. “What is it, B?”

Betty takes a tiny sip of water and then sets the glass down on an end table. “Jughead - ” His name sounds unsteady coming out of her mouth. “I think Jughead’s in love with me.”

Veronica blinks at her. And blinks again. And then blinks one more time. “I know,” she says slowly. “I’ve been saying that for years.”

“No - Veronica, he _told_ me. I mean, he didn’t tell me he was in love with me, but he told me he had a crush on me, back in high school, and lately it’s just felt like…”

Veronica releases a sigh that has an edge of dissatisfaction to it. “So you had to hear it from the proverbial horse’s mouth,” she muses.

“We’ve been sleeping together,” Betty confesses, pressing her free hand over her face briefly. “I just - I was hormonal, and we’d already done it, so it… it seemed like a good idea at the time. And I don’t know, being with him is…” She trails off again and looks down at her belly. “He loves the baby. He loves her so much. And part of me wants to say it’s _just_ the baby, it’s just because I’m pregnant with his kid, but another part of me - another part of me wonders if maybe he never stopped feeling that way about me. And maybe I don’t want him to.” Tears well up in her eyes. “Maybe _I_ \- ”

“It’s alright,” Veronica says, squeezing her hand.

“It’s not,” Betty says, meeting Veronica’s eyes. “You were right. When you said I was an idiot, you were right. I don’t know how I could’ve asked him to _just_ be my sperm donor. _Just_ , like Jughead and I could be a _just_ , like it wouldn’t be complicated.”

“You are an idiot,” Veronica agrees gently. “But you’re brilliant in lots of other ways, and you’re one of the best people I know, and you’re gorgeous, and that man has been in love with you for decades. So it’s alright.”

Betty shuts her eyes. _Decades._ “I keep thinking,” she whispers, “about how things might’ve been if I’d known. If he’d just _said_ something. How different my life, and his life - _our_ lives would’ve been. If I’d listened to you, or if I’d just paid more attention to him, or….”

“Well, I know _my_ life would’ve been much less frustrating,” Veronica says with a quick flip of her hair. “And yes, a thousand things could’ve happened differently for the two of you, but Betty, the life you have right now is pretty damn good. You’re having a baby with a guy who loves you. And you think you love him too, right?”

Betty nods, not trusting herself to speak.

“So _tell_ him that,” Veronica says, squeezing Betty’s hand again. “And have the craziest sex you can while you’re housing a human, and get Jughead to write the screenplay of your real life rom-com, and put the profits in baby girl’s college fund so she can go to Yale like her mama.”

“He’s my daughter’s father, V,” Betty says. “He’s my best friend. What if we try being together and it doesn’t have lasting power and it falls apart and I lose all of that.”

“And what if it’s everything Jughead’s ever wanted and more,” Veronica counters. “What if it makes you the happiest you’ve ever been, and you all live happily ever after.”

Betty looks at Veronica for a long moment, desperately wanting to believe her, and then slowly nods. She lifts a hand automatically to the spot where she can feel her daughter kicking.

“Baby girl agrees?” Veronica asks, tilting her head.

Betty doesn’t quite manage a smile, but she comes close. “I think she might.”

 

* * *

 

“Betty, are you _sure_ that we need this many types of cheese?” Jughead asks, surveying the ingredients on their kitchen countertop with a slight frown. Betty has been craving a specific homemade pasta sauce through much of her last trimester, but lately she’s been so exhausted by the time she gets home that there hasn’t been much of an opportunity to actually make the meal herself.

Enter Jughead and what he considers to be an ingenious compromise: he’ll make it, and she’ll provide direction. He’s set her up on the small armchair that typically sits abandoned in the corner of their living room, but he’s moved it to the edge of the kitchen and placed a kitchen table chair beneath her feet, along with a few strategically placed pillows to alleviate the aches in her ankles and lower back. She loves New York, he knows, but the amount of walking required per day has really started to wear on her as she’s become larger, and Jughead has been trying to keep her as comfortable as possible.

So here Betty is, stretched out along the opening to the kitchen, wearing a pair of running shorts that she can no longer run in and a tank top that only covers half of her bump. Atop her swollen belly sits a small bowl of almonds, which she’s casually popping her in her mouth in between giving Jughead specific recipe-making advice.

“Yes, Jughead,” she replies. “Which would you suggest getting rid of?”

“Uhh.” Jughead stares at the pile of groceries in front of him. There’s oil, garlic, onion, oregano, crushed tomatoes, salt, pepper, parsley, and five - not three or four, but _five_ \- kinds of cheese. “Well, I don’t think I know what fontina cheese _is_ , so probably that one?”

Betty gives him a look that plainly says _you are an idiot._ “No,” she says simply. “You’re gonna wanna start chopping the onion - but first put the oil in the skillet, it’ll get hot while you’re chopping. No, not like that, smaller pieces.”

He sighs and grits his teeth. “You’re bossy,” he says teasingly, as he continues to cut the onion into smaller and smaller portions. When he thinks he’s gotten them finely chopped enough, he turns to get Betty’s approval, and notices in horror that she’s wiping at her eyes. “Oh no, sweetheart, what’s -”

“Onion,” she explains, pointing at him. Jughead blinks quickly, recognizing the familiar sting in the corners of his own eyes, and then sighs in relief.

“Thank god,” he murmurs. Betty has been exceptionally … well, he’ll use the word _cranky_ , because it seems most fair, but _erratically-tempered_ and _emotional_ also come to mind. He doesn’t blame her: she’s just over seven months pregnant now, and in addition to her swelling extremities, she hasn’t been getting a lot of sleep. The pillow has helped, mainly for naps, but he’s also personally tried to make himself as comfortable for her as possible during the nights. The last thing that she needs is him being snarky about her sleeplessness-induced irritation during the day.

Betty’s head falls back on the chair and she turns her face to his, a smile on it now. “Put the onion in for five minutes, then add the cloves of garlic, and some salt, pepper, and oregano. And Juggie?”

Jughead obeys, dropping the onion into the pain, and begins to push it around. “Yeah, Betts.”

“I really appreciate this.” She rubs her lower stomach. “Your daughter really wanted this sauce.”

He smiles and abandons the onions for a moment to come to her side. “You’re welcome, baby,” he tells her, kissing her forehead. The term has been slipping out more and more recently, but he can’t seem to stop himself. He sets his palm next to hers on her belly, sighs in contentment as a few soft kicks are felt, and then squats down to press his lips to her stomach. “You’re welcome too, little angel,” he murmurs, stroking her skin with his thumb. “We’ll give you a name soon, babygirl.”

“Yeah.” Betty’s eyes are shining when Jughead stands up to return to the onions. “Guess we should narrow down the list. I will say, it _is_ a lot harder when you’re a teacher: there are so many kids that I wouldn’t want my daughter’s name to remind me of.”

Jughead chuckles. “I bet, yeah. We’ll find something, though. Don’t worry.”

 _We._ He’s been using that a lot recently, it seems; ever since Christmas, when she’d told him that she wanted him to be on the baby’s birth certificate, everything has seemed a lot more mutual. He’s beginning to feel like maybe he’s actually part of this, like the journey didn’t end with his sperm donation. Her daughter is now _their_ daughter, and even sometimes _his_ daughter; the joy he feels in hearing that is surpassed only by the inexplicable sense of love that he experiences when the baby in Betty’s belly kicks against his hands.

But when it comes to _them,_ things are decidedly less clear. He’d told Betty about his high-school crush on her, neglecting to tell her that really, it had started before his memory does and never really ended, especially now. She’d taken it fairly well: quiet at first, then loving, and now sort of quiet again. She seems to alternate between distant and clingy, depending on the time of day and what they’re doing, and if he’s being honest, it’s fucking confusing. Jughead doesn’t know _what_ to think, or _what_ to do: she’s harder to read right now than she ever was, and he used to be a self-proclaimed expert on Betty Cooper’s Moods.

At her instruction, Jughead adds the tomatoes next, and as it simmers, begins cooking pasta shells on another burner. He sets the water to boil, and as he waits, he looks over at Betty. She’s done with the almonds now, the bowl discarded to the side, and is wriggling her feet with a faintly pained expression on her face.

“Can I interest you in a foot massage after dinner?” Jughead offers.

Betty looks over at him. “Oh Juggie, you don’t have to.” Her expression softens, then she holds a hand out toward him. “C’mere.”

He obeys, closing the few-foot gap between them, and lets her pull his face down to hers. She kisses him softly, pushing the beanie off his head, and tugs at his hair. “I don’t mind,” he says against her lips, steadying himself against the chair with one hand and letting the other trail down to her chest.

Betty breaks the kiss but keeps his face close to hers. “I know you don’t,” she murmurs, drawing her lower lip between her teeth as his hand slips beneath her tank top and his thumb circles her nipple through her bralette. “That feels so good,” she breathes. “Jug -”

The water boiling over the edge of the pot interrupts them, and Jughead springs back to the stove to lower the temperature. He adds the shells, then stirs the pasta sauce. “A few more minutes and I’ll add the cheese,” he says to the stove, trying to will his body to return to his control. After a couple of months of regular sex, owing to Betty’s hormone-induced desires, her sex drive has started to wane. It’s coincided with her rising discomfort, so Jughead knows it’s nothing personal to him, but - well, he’d sort of gotten used to the intimacy, to being like _that_ with Betty again, feeling impossibly close, and he curses the interruption of any return to that, however mild. Without his offer of sex for her pregnancy desires, he’s not even sure if he’s allowed to kiss her regularly, and it’s that which might make him saddest of all.

After dinner, Jughead banishes Betty to relax on the couch while he washes the dishes. She’s half-asleep when he’s finally done, but she waves him over to sit with her anyway, directing him to sit on one end while she rests her head on his lap and her feet are elevated.

“What do you want to watch?” he asks her, as he settles a blanket along her body.

“Don’t care,” Betty sighs, reaching up blindly for his hand. Jughead gives it to her, and she pulls his arm to rest on the upper curve of her belly. “She’s moving again.” Betty cranes her neck back and smiles at him. “She loves you so much.”

Jughead’s throat feels tight. “I love her,” he says honestly. “What about _Amelia_?”

“Amelia.” Betty’s face contorts in a slight frown of concentration, then relaxes into a bright smile. “That’s a great name!”

“What?” He points to the TV screen, where the Hilary Swank movie of the same name is highlighted on his Netflix. “No, I meant - do you want to watch the movie _Amelia_?”

“Oh.” Betty shakes her head. “Not really, she obviously must die in the end if it’s about Amelia Earhart. Something … lighter, maybe.” She struggles to sit up a little. “I do think it would be a great name, though.”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Amelia,” he repeats, the name sounding very … round in his mouth. “We could call her Mia for short.”

“Mia.” Betty nods slowly. “I like it. Amelia Cooper.”

“Did we just name her?” Jughead asks; his cheeks hurt, and he realizes a beat later that his mouth is split into a grin.

Betty props herself up on one hand and nods, a matching smile on her face. “I think we did,” she says, leaning toward him expectantly. Jughead threads his arms around her, pulls her up and closer to him, and kisses her.

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Two weeks after they pick a name, Jughead is walking home to their apartment in Brooklyn when he passes by a flower stand set up near Prospect Park. He thinks immediately about Betty, then wonders whether buying her flowers would send the wrong message. He briefly contemplates asking the attendant whether he has a bouquet that says _I know I said I would be just a sperm donor but I’m going to love both of you forever anyway so maybe you could just let me stick around_ , then picks a simple arrangement of peonies and hydrangeas.

“Lucky lady at home?” the attendant asks as they exchange payment.

Jughead clutches the bouquet. “Pregnant girlfriend,” he explains in a half-lie, and decides he likes how it sounds.

“Congratulations,” the attendant replies, shaking Jughead’s hand. “My wife and I have three ourselves. How far along is she?”

“About seven and a half months.”

The attendant grins. “Almost there, huh? She doin’ a lot of swimming?”

Jughead shakes his head. “Don’t think so. Why, does that help? She’s getting pretty uncomfortable.”

“My wife swore by it for all three kids. Good luck, man.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Jughead gives him a grateful nod and wanders away, already googling public pools near their apartment.

He gets home about twenty minutes later and is immediately hit with the overwhelming scent of feta cheese and olives. It’s Betty’s day to cook, and while lately she’s been too tired to do so, today it seems she had felt up to it. Jughead glances around the corner into the kitchen and spots her immediately. She’s wearing pajamas (a common occurrence lately as many of her casual clothes have started to not fit altogether) underneath a crisp white apron that reads _I’ve got a bun in the oven!_ across the abdomen.

Jughead kicks his shoes off, shrugs his jacket onto the hook by the door, and enters the kitchen with the flowers hidden behind his back. “Veronica?” he guesses by way of greeting, pointing to her apron.

Betty looks down and smiles ruefully. “Polly, actually.”

“It’s cute.” Jughead brings the flowers into view. “Got you something on the way home.”

“What did - _Jug,_ ” Betty says, her jaw dropping. “They’re beautiful!” She accepts the bouquet, inspecting it, then presses her nose to the petals and inhales. “You did not need to do this.”

He shrugs. “The stand was on the way, and you’ve seemed … I dunno, it feels like you haven’t been having the best time lately. Thought it might cheer you up.” He deposits the reusable container that had once held his lunchtime sandwich on the counter, and as he sets it in the sink, he adds, “The flower guy told me that his wife did a lot of swimming in her third trimester. Maybe you should try that?”

When Betty doesn’t reply right away, Jughead looks over at her, and is shocked again to see that she’s crying; this time, there are no onions.

“Betty, what’s wrong?!” he asks, dropping the containers and setting his hands on her hips. “Is everything okay?”

She shakes her head, sniffling, and finally manages to speak: “You’re too much.”

Jughead frowns. “What do you mean?” he asks. “Am I - do you want me to back off? Sorry, I -”

“No,” Betty interrupts. “No, you’re impossibly sweet.” Her palm touches his cheek, then she adds, “I’m such an idiot.”

He says nothing; instead, Jughead watches as she drops her hand and steps away with the flowers in her other hand. She sets them in a vase, mixing flower food and water in the bottom, and then sits down on a kitchen chair quietly, her mediterranean chicken wraps abandoned on the countertop.

“I wanted a baby,” she says finally, not looking at him. “And I was prepared to do that by myself. I went to get a sperm donor, I tried IUI, all that. And it didn’t work. But then you - you worked. And it’s still the most incredible gift anyone has ever given me, Jug, it is.” Betty’s head drops, and she touches her belly. “But I started doing it that way, and now … with you, the way you’ve been, the way _we_ -” her voice cracks, and she clears her throat. “The way we’ve been - it makes me think that maybe I was overlooking something that’s been there all along.”

Jughead’s heart starts beating double-time. This is the moment, he feels. This is _his_ moment.

Unless -

 _Unless she’s just scared,_ he thinks. She’s just scared and doesn’t want to go through this alone, now that she’s so close. It’s not about him at all - how could it be? It’s about the baby, about little Mia, and even though it hurts his heart, Jughead knows that that’s the way it needs to be for now.

“I want more than anything, Jug,” Betty says suddenly, lifting her head, “for it to end another way. For it to not end alone, like it started.” The tears in her eyes begin to spill over. “Is there any chance that you feel the same way?”

“Christ, Betty,” he swears, coming toward her in an instant. He grabs her hands and crouches in front of her. He screws his eyes shut and drops his head to his forearms. He _loves_ her, more than basically anything in the world except for the life growing inside of her, and he wants more than anything to believe that her words are real. He exhales shakily. “Do you not see -”

 _Do you not see that I love you? That I_ have _loved you? That I will never do anything_ but _love you?_

“I’m so scared,” Betty cuts in, her tears cutting dangerously close to sobs. Her breathing is unsteady, and in that moment, all of Jughead’s swirling thoughts about his feelings and her potentially conflating her emotions with her hormones fall aside.

“Calm down, baby,” he urges, squeezing her hands. “Take deep breaths. What are you scared about?”

“You’re so important, Jug,” she cries, raising her head to the ceiling. She takes shallow, shuddering breaths. “You’re _too_ important. What if - I want this, I want _you_ , but what if it doesn’t - what if I -”

“Hey,” Jughead soothes, rising to his feet and leaning into her to pull her to him, as close as he can given her seated position and the swollen belly between them. “Hey, baby, don’t worry.” He rubs her upper back, presses a kiss to her temple. “I will _never_ be gone from your life, okay? No matter what happens. I promise. As long as I’m alive, I’m with you.” He sighs, holding her as her sobs subside into gentle hiccups, and slowly pulls back.

“You can’t promise that,” she whispers.

“I can,” Jughead confirms, sinking into another kitchen chair across from her. “But this reaction, Betts, it’s not good for the baby. This worrying isn’t good for Mia.” He touches her belly gently, and smiles when he feels a small kick. “I think … I think we should do what we want, at least until she’s born. We don’t have to … I dunno, call it anything, but - I’m here, Betts. I’m here with you and I’m here to support you and whatever you need from me, I’ll give it. I’m more than willing to give it.”

Betty looks at him with an indescribable expression in her eyes, then slowly, she nods. “I love you, Juggie,” she tells him in a soft voice.

He leans over and kisses her temple firmly. “I love you too.”

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Jughead spends the next few weeks in what he could only characterize as a loving haze. Betty continues to have difficulty sleeping, but she does get a membership at a public rec centre with an indoor pool only a couple of blocks from their apartment, and it seems to help. Some evenings, she comes home and falls nearly immediately to sleep, but still others are spent comfortably (as possible) cuddled into Jughead’s side while they watch aimless television or movies. They don’t sleep together as much as they used to, apparently owing mostly to Betty’s general discomfort, but she kisses him more often than she doesn’t, and for now that’s enough for Jughead.

On one Wednesday night just before she hits 32 weeks pregnant, Betty has a special yoga-for-expectant mothers class, so Jughead has scheduled his regular phone call with Archie to centre around an online video game that they can play together, even across the miles.

“How are things going, Arch?” Jughead asks, settling back against the couch, his fingertips drumming on the controller, eagerly anticipating the start of the game. He’s wearing a headset with a microphone to leave his hands free for playing, and as he waits, he’s surprised to realize just how much he’d been looking forward to this very mundane evening.

Archie’s voice is cheerful and clear over the headset. “Good! How about you? How’s Betty doing?”

“She’s good,” Jughead says vaguely, biting his lip. He hasn’t told Archie about his impending fatherhood; even now, Veronica and Alice are the only people that _do_ know. Not even his own father - regardless of if he’d care - is privy to that, but it does feel awful to be lying by omission to his oldest friend in the world.

“Yeah? Ready for delivery? Anytime now, eh?”

Jughead shoots an enemy intruder in the game and audibly cheers his own victory. “Uhh - not quite yet, another couple of months, really, but I guess it _could_ be anytime. The baby is developed enough, but she’s only thirty-two weeks - thirty-six weeks is much safer.”

“Ah. That sounds complicated.”

“Childbirth is both remarkably complicated and remarkably easy, it seems,” Jughead chuckles. “At least, that’s what the books say.”

Archie snorts. “You’ve been reading books on childbirth? How come? Just in case she gives birth at home accidentally, or what?”

“No, because - never mind.” Jughead turns and shoots Archie not-so-accidentally, and snickers through the headset.

“Come on, man!” Archie complains. “You asshole! Anyway - tell me, never mind what? You get a second career as a gynecologist?”

“Not exactly.” Jughead sighs. “Look, man, if I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone, just because I - I dunno still exactly what’s going to happen, but … anyway, promise me.”

“Promise not to tell anyone _what?_ ” Archie laughs. “Come on bro, it’s not a government secret, it’s Betty.”

“Betty’s baby is mine,” Jughead says, then quickly follows it up with, “I agreed to be a sperm donor, uh, naturally.”

The line is silent for a few long moments, then Archie explodes. _“What?!”_

Jughead winces and holds his headset away from his ear for a moment. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Almost nobody knows. It was supposed to just be a … favour, I don’t know.”

“A favour,” Archie repeats. “The girl you’ve been in love with your entire life asked you to be her sperm donor _as a favour_ and you - you said _yes_? Wait, what am I talking about, of course you said yes, but - god, Jug, that is a terrible, terrible idea.”

“Well, it’s too late,” Jughead says, a little irritated. “It’s done.” He knows that Archie only has his best interests at heart - that has _always_ been true about Archie, even when the actions he sometimes takes as a result don’t turn out the best way - but he also knows that there’s no way Archie could get it. He’s not here. He doesn’t see them. He can’t feel _her._

“Jug.” Archie sounds hesitant, but he also isn’t backing down. “I’m just worried about you. How much of yourself do you have to give to her before you can’t take it anymore?”

“All of it,” he responds, starting a new round onscreen. “I’ll give her everything.”

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A week after that, Jughead comes home after work to see Betty standing in the hallway of her bedroom, staring thoughtfully at the nursery’s furniture. He approaches her wordlessly, taking the hand that she holds out to him.

“I want to donate my old bed,” she tells him. “I don’t need it anymore. Maybe get a chair instead.”

His hand squeezes hers, and his lips fall to her head. “Alright.”

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And then, on a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of May, Jughead gets a text while in the middle of a client meeting about a potential alliance of lower Manhattan artists and how best his organization could leverage their access.

“Sorry,” he says apologetically, while pulling his cell out of his pocket. “I need to check this. My, uh, girlfriend is pregnant, and you never…”

His words die on his tongue. It’s from Betty, and it says, simply: _**My water broke.**_

 

 

tbc.


	11. Chapter 11

Amelia is born on May fourteenth, mid-morning, the sky blue and almost cloudless outside Betty’s hospital room window as her newborn daughter greets the world with a wail.

Betty goes into labour on the thirteenth. Jughead arrives at the hospital about an hour after she does, looking every bit like a frantic sitcom husband as he bursts into her room. Part of her wants to laugh at him, but a much bigger part of her is just utterly relieved to see him. He drops into the chair next to her bed and takes her hand, careful not to knock off the oximeter clipped to the end of her index finger. “I’m here,” he says, his words as steady as his eyes on her face, solid and sure. “I’m right here with you.”

She nods in response, and he leans up out of the chair for a moment to kiss her cheek. The fingers of her other hand, which have been continually clenching and unclenching, curling out and curling in, finally relax, and she presses her palm against the bedsheet.

She manages to doze a little in the smallest hours of the night, after she gets her epidural, and wakes at one point to find that Jughead hasn’t given in to the temptation to get a quick nap in himself - he’s slumped a little in his chair, but his eyes are open, focused on the muted late-night infomercials playing on the TV mounted in the corner. When he notices that she’s awake, he sits up straight.

“You okay, baby?” he asks her. “Do you need anything?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, and reaches for his hand again. She closes her eyes as his fingers wrap around hers.

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When her squalling baby is placed on her chest, Betty’s faintly aware of the noise she makes, a sound that tangles together a wonderstruck gasp, a full-hearted sob, and an exhausted sigh of sheer relief. She shushes her daughter’s indignant cries gently and breathes, “Hi.” She’s carried Amelia for months, felt her move and kick and shift, but to see her crumpled pink face and to listen to the sounds coming from her small, powerful lungs, to watch as her arm flails briefly toward Betty’s chin - it’s the most real, most magical thing that’s ever happened to her, and for a moment she thinks she’s going to burst into a fit of tears that will rival her baby’s.

Her cheeks are wet and her hair is too, just in one spot on her left side, where Jughead’s tears have dripped down his cheeks and off his chin to land on her head. His hand is soft on her shoulder, and she somehow manages to stop looking at the baby for a moment in order to turn to him and take in his reverent expression. The smile she gives him is watery, trembling, elated, and he kisses that smile, his mouth meetings her with such force that he steals her breath for an instant.

“ _You’re everything_ ,” he breathes against her lips, and as they pull apart, both of their gazes settle immediately back on their brand new daughter. Betty hears something catch in Jughead’s throat as he reaches a finger toward Amelia’s tiny hand. “Everything,” he repeats.

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When Betty’s doctor and nurses are done with her and Amelia has been checked over, weight taken (7.4 pounds), fingers and toes counted (10 of each), and measured (19.88 inches), the three of them finally have a moment alone. Amelia is swaddled, a small hat on her head, and she blinks up at her parents drowsily from the cradle of Betty’s arms. Jughead hovers next to them, his hand skimming along Betty's forearm, the very tips of his fingers brushing against Amelia's side through the soft flannel blanket.

“Sit, Juggie,” Betty says softly, nodding to the mattress. There’s not _really_ room for him to sit, and she’s too sore to voluntarily shuffle over, but Jughead squeezes onto the bed next to her nonetheless, his arm looping around her shoulders. She feels his fingers comb briefly through her hair, which is a little greasy and limp from sweat, a far cry from her signature tightly-tied ponytail, but he still touches the messy strands like they're spun gold. A thought flickers through the back of her exhausted brain: might he have done that, always, if she’d seen that he wanted to?

His lips press against the apple of her cheek. “Have I told you how insanely incredible you were?” he murmurs.

She smiles faintly. “Once or twice.”

“Seriously, Betts, you - you kicked ass. I’m so fucking proud of you and...amazed by you, and - ” The sound of his swallowing is audible, and his voice has gone gravelly when he says, “Thank you for my daughter.”

She lifts her eyes to meet his. “Thank _you_ ,” she whispers. “For our daughter.”

“Any time, baby,” he says, and though his voice is still serious there’s a glimmer in his eyes, and Betty cracks a grin.

“Put it back in your pants, Jones,” she says, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

He kisses her head and then rests a hand against Amelia’s tummy. “Can I say a word I know you hate?”

Betty’s eyes squeeze shut, holding back a rush of tears. Her hormones are all over the place, and she’s pretty sure she’d cry if she saw a good Band-Aid commercial, at this point, but Jughead’s words give her heart a particularly sharp tug, almost as fierce as the one she felt when she first heard her baby cry. He’s known her since she was a little girl. He knew her in all her worst moments.

And now he’s here, in this: her very best moment to date.

“She is,” she manages to say, surprised by how thick her voice sounds. “She’s perfect.”

“You are,” Jughead tells the baby. “You’re a perfect little person.” He skims his thumb over her chin gently. “Happy birthday, Mia,” he adds, and the tenderness in his voice is enough to turn Betty’s already-melted heart into an even greater puddle of goo. “I love you.”

Betty gathers the baby closer to her and kisses her impossibly smooth forehead, her sweet little cheek, her button of a nose. “Love you so much,” she agrees, watching Mia’s mouth pucker. She takes a breath and turns to Jughead, pressing her lips together nervously. “Jug… ”

He shakes his head, rubbing her shoulder. “We don’t have to talk about it right now.”

She opens her mouth and then closes it again. She feels like she should make some kind of speech, feels a declaration of some sort building inside her, but she doesn’t actually know what words it’s composed of - she just knows that it’s there. But Jughead’s still rubbing her shoulder, his eyes on Mia’s face once again, and she thinks that he might be right. Here, in a hospital, emotions running so high, on Amelia’s birthday - it’s not the right time. He deserves more than that.

So she just says, with the tears in her throat still making her voice thick, “Jughead Jones.” She swallows. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” he says simply, and there’s something about that simplicity that stings, because it’s always been there. It was there in Archie’s treehouse when they were little kids. It was there in middle school, when she always felt like she wasn’t enough, and he always looked at her like she was, like he couldn’t understand why ordering the milkshake she was craving or getting the _exact_ right shade of blue banners for decorating the gym were such big deals. It was there in high school, when Betty had a boyfriend, when she was falling in love for the very first time, but some of her favourite moments were still the quiet early mornings she spent with Jughead in the _Blue and Gold_ office. It was there when she called him and said, _I called off my engagement_ and thirty seconds into her lament over New York’s rental market, he offered her his spare bedroom.

“Betty,” Jughead says, snapping her out of her reverie. He tilts his head to look at her. “Are you alright? Does anything hurt?”

“No, I’m fine,” she says quickly. “I’m fine. Just… ”

“It’s okay,” he says, even though he doesn’t know exactly what she’s thinking.

“Thank you for that, too,” she whispers after a lingering silence, tears gathering above her lower lashes. With effort, she manages to blink them away. “For loving me.”

With that same simplicity, he answers her second thank-you the same way he did her first. “Betty,” he says, “any time.”

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Her mother arrives in the early evening, bearing a bouquet and a gift bag printed with storks. “Elizabeth?” she asks softly after she taps on the door.

“Hi, Mom,” Betty says with a tired smile. She and Mia spent the afternoon navigating their first attempts at breastfeeding, and she could use a nap, but she also can’t bring herself to put Mia back into her little bassinet just yet.

“Hi, Mrs. Cooper,” Jughead adds, pocketing his cell phone. They FaceTimed with Jellybean earlier, and she’s been texting constantly, alternating between expressing her disbelief that Jughead’s a father and asking to be sent more pictures of her niece.

“Jughead,” Alice greets. She appraises him for a moment and then says, with something like approval, “You look tired.”

“Nowhere near as tired as Betty; she did the hard work,” he says, and Betty is pleasantly surprised to see the hints of approval in her mother’s voice find their way into Alice’s eyes.

“That she did,” Alice agrees, handing Jughead the flowers and the gift as she moves closer to the bed. Betty shifts Amelia in her arms slightly so that Alice can get a look at her sweet, sleeping face.

Everything about her mother’s face softens. Gone is the minute crease that so often exists between Alice’s brows, indicating that she’s one small annoyance away from arching one of them; gone is the usual shape of her jaw, set in a way that makes demands or offers judgment. Betty is struck by the possibility that this may have been the expression her mother wore when _she_ was born.

“She’s beautiful,” Alice says softly, leaning in. She looks at Betty. “Congratulations, honey.”

“Thanks,” Betty says, her smile resurfacing.

“You were such a good, sweet baby,” Alice sighs, sounding wistful. “You cried so rarely. Maybe she’ll be the same.”

“I don’t know,” Betty says. “Maybe. But she’s not just mine.” She tilts her head in Jughead’s direction.

“I’m pretty sure I was colicky,” he says, winking quickly at Betty before Alice turns toward him.

“Congratulations to you as well, Jughead,” Alice says. “How does fatherhood feel?”

“Pretty surreal,” he says honestly, his eyes meeting Betty’s again for just a moment. “I’ll, uh - I’ll give you three generations of Cooper women some time to yourselves. I’ll run down to the gift shop and see if I can find a vase for the flowers.”

“Thank you,” Betty tells him. It’s unlike her mother, not to have the forethought to bring the flowers in a vase - but then again, it’s entirely possible that it was a decision made on purpose, designed to give Jughead an errand to run.

“Of course, ba - Betts,” he says, catching himself before he calls her _baby_ in front of her mother. “I’ve got my phone, so… ”

She nods. “I’ll call if I need you.”

Jughead nods in return, throws her a quick smile, and slips out of the room and into the hallway. When the door has closed behind him, Alice asks, “May I hold her?”

“Yes, of course,” Betty says. “Grandma’s going to hold you for a minute, okay,” she murmurs to Amelia before carefully transferring the infant into her mother’s arms.

Alice’s face is warm as the looks at her grandchild. “Does she have a name yet?”

Betty lets herself relax back against her pile of pillows - Jughead had sweet-talked a nurse and grabbed her a couple extra - and nods. “Amelia.”

“Amelia,” Alice repeats, still looking at the baby. “That’s a lovely name for you.” There’s a quiet moment while she watches Mia and Betty watches both of them, and then she looks at her daughter again. “Amelia… ?”

“She’s going to have both our last names. Cooper Jones.”

“Hm,” Alice says, the corner of her mouth quirking. Her lips smooth back into an easy smile before Betty has a chance to interpret that little twitch. “So Cooper… is her middle name?”

“No,” Betty says. “Her middle name is Tate.”

Alice blinks. “Tate?” She hesitates, but can’t seem to resist a critique in the form of a suggestion, “Not Cora, after your grandmother? Or Pauline, for your sister? Or - ”

“She has a middle name, Mom,” Betty says patiently. “It’s Tate. Pop - last time I was home, Pop said something… something that was really important to me. Something important for her, too. It’s the right name for her. We’ve agreed.”

“Oh, _we_ have agreed, have we? Can I assume that _we_ have also agreed to be together, rather than tiptoeing around a relationship while having a child?”

“It’s complicated.”

“That’s what you said to me at Christmas, Elizabeth,” Alice reminds her.

“Well, it’s still true,” Betty says stubbornly.

With a sigh, Alice sits down in the chair next to the bed, moving slowly so as not to jostle Amelia. “I don’t understand, Betty. I really don’t. You called off one perfectly good relationship, and now you refuse to enter into another. Do you not want to be happy?”

“Of course I want to be happy, Mom,” Betty sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “This isn’t like it was with Trev. I realized that being with him - it was good, he was good, but it wasn’t enough. I needed… I don’t know, something more, or something else.”

“It seems to me like you have quite a bit more,” Alice says, dipping her chin toward Amelia pointedly.

Betty looks down into her lap. “Maybe too much,” she says quietly.

“Elizabeth,” Alice says. “Elizabeth, look at me.”

Reluctantly, Betty drags her eyes up to her mother’s face, allowing them to dart to her daughter for just a few seconds.

“You’re a smart woman. You’re so capable, Betty, and you always have been - ever since you were a little girl. I’m not sure that you want to hear this,” Alice adds wryly, “but you remind me very much of myself sometimes. I understand that I’ve… pushed you, at times, Elizabeth. It’s only because I wanted so much for you.” She looks down at Amelia. “Maybe you’ll understand that now. Or, perhaps, you’ll do everything differently,” she says when she catches Betty’s eyebrows drawing together.

“I know that you wanted me to be successful, Mom,” Betty says softly. “I know you believed I could go the college you didn’t, and have the career you didn’t, and I know… I sort of let you down in those respects.”

“Betty.” Alice shifts forward in her chair and reaches her hand out, setting it atop Betty’s, which is laying on her leg over top of her blankets. “Yes, I wanted - I want - you to be successful. But I also want you to be _happy._ ” Her eyes are dark with sincerity. “Don’t let this go, or let this fade, because it wasn’t part of the plan.” She inhales deeply. “I did that, once. And for all the ways I’m proud to see myself in you - it would break my heart to think that I raised my daughter to do it, too.”

Betty stares at her mother for a moment. “Mom,” she says, and then can’t seem to find any other words.

Alice’s eyes glaze over; she blinks, and their sharpness is back. She squeezes Betty’s fingers. “Make the decision,” she says, “that you’d want Amelia to make.”

 

* * *

 

The days immediately following Amelia’s birth are a blur.

They’re in the hospital for less than two days, primarily because Amelia’s birth was by hospital standards quite a smooth one, with no complications. Breastfeeding had seemed like a struggle for Betty at first, but once Amelia has started to latch fairly easily and Betty is moderately recovered from the effects of her epidural, they’re told that they can head home.

Jughead makes a trip home via Lyft in order to grab Betty clothes and the carseat from the combination stroller that they’d purchased weeks prior, then goes back up to the maternity ward to retrieve Betty and Amelia. When he gets to the room, Betty dresses comfortably in a pair of loose leggings and a long shirt that she’d pre-selected weeks ago; Amelia is already set in a cute flamingo-printed onesie that Alice had gifted them.

Alice stays for three days. Initially, when Betty had told him that her mother wanted to come right after the baby’s birth, he’d been a little hesitant. She hasn’t always liked him, and her overbearing nature has wreaked enough havoc on Betty in the past for Jughead to be generally wary. But to his surprise, she is nothing but helpful: she encourages Betty when Amelia has trouble feeding, she insists on both of them getting adequate rest, and she feeds them with homemade cooking the whole time she’s there. When she leaves, it’s with a hug from Betty and a somewhat reluctant hug from himself, and an open invitation to come back.

On the fourth day, Amelia wakes up very early to eat, only three hours after her last feeding. Betty holds her near-listlessly, clearly exhausted, and while he’s been getting up when his girls have, Jughead didn’t give birth less than a week prior and he thinks he has a bit more stamina as a result. So once Betty is done breastfeeding, Jughead takes Amelia to burp her gently, and tells Betty to go back to sleep.

“Are you sure?” she mumbles, as she begins to settle herself into the pillows.

Jughead nods, ignoring the vague fear in the back of his mind at being solely responsible for the smallest human being he’s ever seen, and closes the bedroom door.

“C’mon, babygirl,” he murmurs to Amelia, rubbing her tiny back. “Let’s go see if Archie’s around to FaceTime.”

They sit on the couch, Amelia tucked into his arm, and Jughead calls his best friend, knowing he wouldn’t have yet left for work and hoping that the time difference doesn’t piss him off so much that he doesn’t answer.

In a somewhat characteristic show of reliability, Archie answers: he has messy hair, tired eyes, and a more gravelly voice than usual, but the rumbling of, “Hey Jug” is somehow the third-best thing Jughead’s heard in the last week, only falling to Amelia’s cries and every time Betty has said “I love you”.

“Hey Arch,” Jughead says, glancing down at Amelia before tilting the phone to get her in view. “There’s someone I want you to meet. This is Mia.”

“Who’s - _oh my god,_ ” Archie breathes. “Val, _Val_ , wake up. Look at this.”

Beside him, Valerie’s signature hair comes into view, and she coos, “Awww, adorable!” before asking, “Whose baby?”

“Mine,” Jughead answers, resting his arm out so that both he and Amelia are in frame. “And Betty’s,” he adds, only realizing at this moment the potential awkwardness: Valerie is Trev’s sister and onetime potential sister-in-law to Betty, who only a year after their breakup has a baby with another man. He wonders if Archie said anything to her about this.

 _“What?”_ Valerie demands, at the same time as Archie shakes his head and says, “She’s beautiful, Jug.”

“It’s all Betty.” Jughead stares down adoringly at his daughter; sure, she’s got his hair, but her nose and eyes and face are all Betty, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. “Thankfully.”

“I can’t wait to meet her in person,” Archie says, the changing background behind his head indicating that he’s gotten out of bed and gone to the next room. “I should book a trip home anyway. This is a good reason. She’s so _tiny,_ Jug - and - god, it’s crazy to see you with a baby.”

“It’s crazy to _have_ a baby,” Jughead admits. “The whole thing was so insane, Arch. She’s inside Betty one moment, and then suddenly she’s not, and she’s a whole person and has all the fingers and toes, and Betty’s just _fine,_ like she didn’t just have a baby. I can’t explain it, man. She was such a champion.”

That makes Archie smile. “Betty is good at everything,” he says, “I’m not surprised.”

Jughead chuckles. “Classic overachieving.”

“And…” Archie trails off, then lifts an eyebrow knowingly. “Have you two … talked? Are you a thing?”

“Not yet.” Jughead shifts Amelia in his arms and drops a gentle kiss to her soft, fuzzy head. “Things are a little crazy with Mia here and everything, and Betty’s mom just left. We haven’t had a chance, really. But it’s … it’s good, Arch. I think it’s gonna be good.”

“That’s great, Jug,” Archie replies earnestly. “You look ... I dunno. Just happy.”

“I am,” he nods. For the first time in his life, all of the slings and arrows seem to have fallen away, and the only thing that weighs on him now is the seven pounds of pure love in his arms. “I am.”

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Jughead’s favourite thing to do is watch Amelia sleep, and it’s interesting to him that for how exhausted he and Betty seem to be always, that Amelia actually spends _most_ of her time doing that. After speaking to Archie, Jughead tries to stay up to watch her so that Betty can get more sleep; after an hour or so he places her in the secure swing that Betty’s father had sent them as a gift, and rests his cheek against the back of the couch while Netflix plays quietly on the TV.

He wakes up two hours later to the sound of Amelia crying. Jughead opens one eye and sees Betty lifting Mia out of the swing.

“Shh, angel,” she’s whispering, “Mama’s here.”

Jughead stirs, opening both eyes, and sleepily says, “Sorry, Betts, I must’ve fallen asleep.”

“It’s okay,” Betty says, sitting next to him with Amelia in her arms. She tugs her low-necked tank top down further and unclips the side of her nursing bra, then lifts the baby to her breast. “She’s hungry anyway, and you can’t do much about that.”

He yawns, still tired, and stares at Amelia. “No,” he agrees. “But I can be moral support. I’m a big fan of boobs, too.”

Betty giggles quietly. “I’ll let you change her diaper after, though.”

“It would be my honour.” Jughead sighs, feeling overwhelmingly content. “What time does the Blossom-Lodge hurricane hit today?”

“After lunch,” Betty replies. “Once we’ve eaten and little miss has had another nap.”

He nods slowly in understanding. “I’ll try to straighten up a little.” _For Cheryl,_ he wants to add, but judging by Betty’s knowing look, he doesn’t need to.

“Mom just did a good cleaning yesterday, before she left,” Betty reminds him. “We just need to organize all of the baby stuff a little. Their place was always so clean, even at the beginning.”

“Or we don’t,” Jughead cuts in. “You had a baby less than a week ago. A couple things being out of order is expected. We don’t have a maid like they do.”

“I know.” Betty says the words with mild finality, like she agrees but just wants to _do the thing_ and get it over with. He backs down, already eyeing up gift bags have been misplaced across the table, and stands to collect them. As he approaches the kitchen, Betty asks, “Have you talked to your dad yet?”

He stops, one hand on a unicorn gift bag sent over from his workplace. “No,” he answers, trying to keep an even tone. “I doubt Dad will come up to see us, so he’ll just have to wait until we go to Riverdale to visit.”

“Does he even know that I - that Mia is yours?”

Jughead shakes his head, not feeling confident enough to verbalize his emotions without crying, and stacks the bags neatly in a drawer. “I’ll tell him soon,” he says shortly. Then, he adds, “We FaceTimed Archie this morning, though. He says congrats, that Mia is beautiful, and that he’ll visit soon. Val seemed happy too.”

Betty nods, biting her lip. He wonders if she’s thinking what he was earlier about Valerie. “That’s nice,” she replies. “I hope they’re doing well.”

“You know Archie,” Jughead says with a vaguely dismissive tone, as he moves to pick up a burping cloth that’s fallen on the floor. “Always chasing something.”

“Good to see that it’s not some _one_ anymore, at least.” Betty pulls Amelia back and switches sides, still struggling slightly with the basic mechanics. “Everyone deserves to be happy.” She raises her eyes to his as she speaks, and for some reason, Jughead feels like crying.

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Jughead is in the nursery changing Amelia’s diaper when the buzzer in their apartment lobby goes off, signalling that guests have arrived.

From the living room, Betty calls, “I’ve got it!”, so Jughead takes a few beats longer to dress Amelia than is necessary. She’s wearing a onesie that says _Hello World!_ in swirling golden letters and has a pink floral band fastened around the crown of her head. The rebel in Jughead had wanted to dress her in ratty pyjamas and nothing else, just to prove that _hey, our middle-class baby is just as happy as your rich baby_ , but Betty had vetoed that proposal, informing him that while yes, Cheryl was probably going to continue to be a little classist, parenting was not a competition.

“I still wanna win,” he’d grumbled. Then: “Ew, what is that - Mia, did you just shit?”

His daughter had just stared up at him with searching eyes. With Betty giggling, Jughead had sighed, then scooped her up and taken her away to perform the millionth diaper change of the day.

(He’s exaggerating. But the kid pees a _lot._ )

Jughead hears the apartment door open just as he’s doing up the last of the snaps on Amelia’s onesie. There’s a chorus of, “Betty, you look amazing,”, and “Your boobs are _enormous_ ”, then, in a voice that is definitely, absolutely Veronica’s, a demand: “Okay, where is she?!”

“Juggie’s just changing her,” Betty’s disembodied voice says. “She’ll be out soon. Hi, Monty! How are you?”

_“Montgomery-”_

Jughead lifts Amelia off the change table and kisses her forehead. “Those are your aunties,” he whispers to her. “Auntie V and Auntie Cheryl. They’re okay. I understand if you get a little overwhelmed. But if you’re going to poop again, make sure you poop on Auntie Cheryl, okay?”

Amelia stares back at him.

“Okay,” he sighs. “Let’s go.”

Jughead takes a few steps out of the nursery and into the living room, following the voices. He readjusts his grip on Amelia, then walks into view.

Veronica, who had been talking, stops mid-sentence and rises to her feet. “Oh my _god._ ” In an instant, she’s at Jughead’s side. “You _guys!_ She’s so beautiful. Hi little Amelia,” she coos, touching a manicured finger to Amelia’s cheek. “Hi!”

“Do you want to hold her?” Jughead offers, and when Veronica nods eagerly and sits down, he transfers Amelia’s weight to her cautiously.

Beside Veronica, Cheryl peeks over. “She looks like you, Betty,” she states, sliding her eyes back to her own child, who is toddling around precariously, holding onto the edge of the coffee table. “Careful, Montgomery.”

“I’m so in love with her,” Veronica gushes, looking up at Betty and then at Jughead. “She’s such a perfect mix of you two. Has she been good so far?”

Betty hesitates momentarily, then nods. “Pretty good,” she says. “We’ve had a little bit of trouble breastfeeding at times, but it gets easier as the days go on. My mom was a big help, too, and Jug - Jug has been an angel.”

At that, Cheryl turns slowly to Jughead, one eyebrow cocked aggressively. “Oh?”

Jughead smirks at her. “Can’t you see my halo, Cheryl?”

“Thought that was just dust,” she replies faux-sweetly.

“Cheryl,” Veronica cuts in, a warning edge in her tone. “You should hold her, and I’ll give them the gifts.”

“Gifts?” Betty echoes. “What? You guys didn’t have to bring anything, honestly.”

“Nonsense,” Veronica says, passing Amelia to Cheryl, who Jughead is surprised to see looks fairly comfortable with the arrangement. He knows that they, too, have a baby, but somewhere inside him, he had always just assumed that a nanny did most of the work.

She gets up and goes back to the entranceway to the apartment. When she reappears, it’s with two large boxes in her hands, wrapped neatly in baby-girl-appropriate pink paper.

“Here you go, mama,” she says, handing the boxes to Betty.

Betty shakes her head at Veronica, still slightly off-put by the presence of gifts, and then holds her hand to Jughead. “Come sit with me,” she requests softly.

He obeys, sinking down on the edge of the chair that she’s perched in. “Let’s see what you got, Mia,” he says, pulling at the ribbon of one box.

Betty slides a finger into the edge of the wrapping, neatly undoing the taped corner, and lifts the paper carefully off of the box. When the lid of the package beneath says ‘Saks’, Jughead hears Betty audibly exhale.

“What did you do?” she asks, pointedly staring at Veronica.

She shrugs innocently. “Look, we may have been _slightly_ excited at the prospect of little-girl stuff, so … just let us spoil her, okay?”

Those words make the hair on Jughead’s arms raise. Judging by the follow-up gasp from Betty at the items inside the box, Veronica and Cheryl’s gifts are obviously expensive. He’s not sure that that’s the kind of thing that he wants for his baby girl, regardless of their good intentions.

He doesn’t say anything, though, choosing instead to remain silent while Betty lifts a tiny dress out of the box. It’s ruffled around the hem and covered in tiny cherries, and while it’s obviously adorable, the awed way that Betty says, “Bonpoint, oh my _god_ ” makes Jughead’s stomach feel uneasy. “V, Cheryl, this is too-”

“Don’t say too much,” Cheryl interrupts. “You’re … my cousin, Betty, and I think our children will be friends. Every baby girl should have a couple of really cute outfits.”

 _I can get cute outfits at Wal-Mart,_ Jughead wants to say, _Money doesn’t dictate cute,_ but he doesn’t.

In the next box is what he has to admit is a very nice-looking winter coat, size for six to nine months. It’s white and has a bow on the collar, with a matching white hat and tiny mittens. Jughead can accept this; it’s useful, and New York does get fairly cold, so-

“Burberry, Veronica, we can’t -”

“You will.” Veronica looks confidently at Betty while cradling Amelia. Beside her, Cheryl has Montgomery on her lap; he’s looking curiously over at the baby, probably wondering _what is this_ and _why is it so small_.

Jughead can empathize.

“You guys, this is incredible, thank you so much.” Betty hands the boxes to Jughead, then stands to give Veronica and Cheryl gentle hugs. “Jug, Mia and I are so lucky to have you guys as friends.”

 _Jug, Mia, and I_ , Jughead mentally repeats. They sound like a family. And, when his daughter starts to cry and his first instinct is to rise and go to her, he realizes that they kind of are.

It’s what he’s always wanted, and suddenly, it’s overwhelming.

“Yeah, thanks,” he says in a too-choked voice to Veronica, while he’s bent over her to lift Mia into his arms. “You too, Cheryl. We can’t wait for Mia to play with Monty.”

Cheryl’s voice, haughty but gentle, cuts in, interrupting his emotional moment with himself.

“It’s _Montgomery,_ how many times do I have to tell you two-”

 

 

tbc.


	12. Chapter 12

The weeks after Mia’s birth are a blur, elation and exhaustion intermingling until Betty forgets what it’s like not to be just a little bit overwhelmed all the time. Sometimes she could cry at the perfect sight of Mia’s miniature rosebud of a mouth; sometimes she could cry as she witnesses that mouth stretching open and what feels like an infinite wail coming from the baby’s lungs. She loves Mia so fiercely that it’s a physical sensation, a very real feeling in her body, but when she walks into the kitchen and for a second time in one day forgets why she’s there in the first place, her mind starts waxing poetic about her bed and all the restful nights she once spent in it, nostalgically romanticizing the comfort of a deep sleep and wishing she’d been more appreciative of it at the time.

Which is not to say that she doesn’t love spending the night in her current bed, a bed that was once Jughead’s and has since becomes theirs, but that she misses getting a solid seven hours of sleep per night in a way that has her bottom lip poking out in the slightest pout as she tells Jughead as much, their foreheads pressed together as they whisper to one another so as not to wake Mia.

“I know, baby,” he says with a soft smile, his hand running up and down her arm. “The circles under my eyes look like they’re two shades darker. She’s aging me, that girl.”

Betty studies his face. He’s right, the dark circles under his eyes, which she’s pretty sure have their origins in genetics, are looking a little more pronounced of late, but there’s something about the eyes above them, blue and gentle as they trace over her own face, that’s simultaneously bright and _peaceful_ in a way that she can feel in her bones.

“You love her for it,” she says, and it sounds like the kind of thing that should be a question, but it isn’t. She knows his answer.

“I do.” He puts his palm against her cheek. “And so do you.”

“I do,” she echoes, her eyelids beginning to droop. She sighs through a yawn. “G’night, Juggie.”

“Goodnight,” he replies, and she feels his arm settle over her body before she drifts to sleep.

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Betty wakes a couple hours later to the sound of Mia’s distinct feed-me-now cries. She pushes the blankets aside and puts her feet on the floor before she’s even fully conscious, and pads over to the crib to scoop Mia up.

“Shh, shh,” she soothes, gathering the baby in her arms. “Shh, I’m here.” She pats a hand lightly against Mia’s back and whispers, “You’re so demanding, Amelia Badelia. Do you know that?”

The baby sniffles plaintively in response, and Betty turns to head out of the bedroom and to the nursery to feed her - they’ll move the crib back into the nursery soon enough, but for now, she and Jughead both sleep easier having Mia close. She’s halfway to the door when Jughead’s sleep-thick voice says, “Feed her in here.”

Betty pauses. “You sure?”

In response, he simply reaches over the pats the side of the mattress she’d left unoccupied.

Once Betty’s settled on the bed and Mia’s settled at her breast, Jughead props himself up a bit and puts a kiss against her temple, one against her cheek, and then drops one onto her shoulder before he puts his head back on his pillow. He reaches up and catches Mia’s tiny, kicking foot through her sleep sack, giving it a fond squeeze.

“I still can’t believe I had any part in her existence,” he muses quietly.

Betty bites her lip. “I… can’t believe there was a time when I didn’t think you would. I can’t imagine things any differently.”

“Yeah?” he asks.

The turn of her head is a little sharp; she’s surprised by his question, by the fact that it’s something he has to ask, when she’s been thinking, over and over again since Mia’s birth, that things might have gone so much differently and she could have missed out on so much. She could’ve had a stranger’s baby, and she probably would’ve been happy, but she wouldn’t be happy like she is right now. She could’ve missed out on this, laying in a dark bedroom with Jughead’s hand on her thigh, his thumb skimming over the flannel fabric of the pair of pyjama pants - his, not hers - that she’s wearing, while she nurses their daughter.

“ _Yes,_ ” she tells him, emphatically. She came so close to not having this, having him, having their baby, that it terrifies her. “Jug - yes. I’m so glad she’s ours.”

“Best thing I’ll ever have,” he says, squeezing her leg like he might not be talking just about the baby.

“Are you happy?” she whispers to him.

Jughead lets out a quick breath, a soft burst of air that conveys disbelief. “Betty,” he says. “Ridiculously. Fucking ridiculously.”

She exhales, too, letting out a breath she hadn’t quite realized she was holding. “Me too,” she says, letting her eyes roam over his face for a long moment - she’s always looking for pieces of Mia in him, and pieces of him in Mia. His eyelids grow heavier and heavier under her gaze, and she says, gently, “Go back to sleep.”

“No, I’m up. I’m up with you.”

“You have work in the morning,” Betty reminds him. “She won’t eat for much longer, anyway. Sleep. We’ll all be up again in a few hours.”

He nods against his pillow, and Betty turns her attention to Mia, who’s begun to fuss. She shifts the baby around in her hold, switching sides and getting her settled again. After the two of them are comfortable, she glances at Jughead once more and says, so abruptly that she doesn’t even register the words in her mouth until she’s speaking them, “I love you.”

His reponse is nothing but a soft snore, his hand soft and relaxed against her leg as he sleeps.

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Their Saturday trip to the grocery store has become, since Mia was born, their major weekly outing. She takes Mia out in her stroller for a walk nearly every day, but Saturday mornings are special in that the three of them go out together, and because Jughead actually replies to her in coherent - and sometimes even thought-provoking - sentences when she talks to him, rather than making sweetly contented or grumpily dissatisfied sounds.

It’s funny - after she moved in with Jughead, his agreement to joint grocery shopping had felt special to her, had felt like a sign that he didn’t mind hanging out with her despite the fact that they were in each other’s space all the time already, had felt like a sign that he, too, was craving the kind of companionship that’s cemented within the domestic routines of a household. Those Saturday trips became something she thought of as _theirs_ , and they still are, still _theirs_ , but the composition of _them_ has changed. They aren’t roommates, anymore, or friends. They’re a family.

It’s become tradition for them to stop at a café along the way for coffee and muffins, provided Mia’s in good spirits. That’s the case on this particular Saturday: Mia is sleepy-eyed and quiet in the carrier strapped to Betty’s chest, so they duck out of the sun and into their favourite coffee shop, which is only moderately busy.

Glancing at the muffin selection, Jughead asks, “Blueberry?” but it’s only a formality; he knows that’s what Betty wants. She nods and follows him up to the counter, where she gives the barista the order (iced latte with half the sweetener and a pump of vanilla syrup) that always make straight-black-coffee-drinking Jughead cringe in a way that’s only partially performative. The barista busily scribbles down the specifics of Betty’s order on a cup, but pauses halfway through her task when Mia turns her head.

Sharpie in the air, the barista coos, “Oh, she’s so _beautiful_!”

Betty smiles politely, glancing down at Mia. In a floral-printed dress, tiny canvas shoes, and with a purple bow on a headband - courtesy of Aunties Veronica and Cheryl - atop her little head, Betty’s more than willing to admit that her adorable baby is especially cute today. “Thank you,” she says as the barista coos hello to Mia.

“She already looks so much like _both_ of you,” the barista says brightly, glancing from Jughead to Betty to Mia. “Yes, you look like both your mommy and daddy, don’t you?” she asks Mia.

Betty’s smile softens from something polite and easy into something more pleased. “Do you think so?”

“Definitely,” the barista gushes, handing off Betty’s cup to a coworker. She punches some buttons on the register and says, “Six forty-four. Muffins are on the house.”

“Oh,” Betty says, “You don’t have to - ”

The barista shakes her head before Betty can even fully form a protest. “New parents need energy,” she says.

“Thanks, that’s very kind of you,” Jughead says, handing his credit card over.

“Consider it a congratulatory gift,” the barista says, swiping it for him. “Have a great day. Bye, little sweetie,” she adds to Mia.

Jughead collects the tray with their drinks and snacks on it, and Betty leads the way to a corner table. “Betts,” he says into her ear as he leans in close to set the tray down. “You didn’t tell me that having a baby meant getting _free food._ ”

She laughs, and teases him, “You want to have another one now?”

He puts a quick kiss to her cheek. “I’d make a baby with you any time, Betty Cooper,” he murmurs, and her face feels flushed as she pulls out her chair and takes a seat.

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They trade off before they head to the grocery store, strapping Mia and her carrier to Jughead’s chest instead. Betty helps him loosen and tighten things where necessary, and then they head off into the summer sunshine, a floppy white hat on Mia’s head to protect her delicate skin and eyes. Jughead finds Betty’s hand with his own and swings it lightly as they walk the remaining blocks to Trader Joe’s.

At the store, they grab a cart and trace their usual path through the produce section, the bakery, and the deli. Things go smoothly and efficiently until, in the middle of an aisle, an item on Betty’s list catches her eye and she says, “Oh, crap. We forgot the broccoli for the stir fry.” She hands her list over to Jughead, since he’s currently in possession of both their baby and the cart. “You keep going; I’ll run back and grab it.”

Betty speed-walks back to the produce, selects a head of broccoli that she thinks will be sufficient for the recipe, and then returns to the non-perishable aisles. She’s surprised to find Jughead exactly where she left him, in the pasta aisle, standing by boxes of penne and linguine. He’s talking to someone, a tall, slender woman with a shiny mane of black hair, and as Betty rounds the corner into the aisle, the woman laughs and touches a hand, flirtatiously, to Jughead’s bicep.

A frown forming on her face, Betty marches down the aisle, past bottles and bottles of tomato sauce, and comes to a stop right up against Jughead’s side, slotting her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Got the broccoli, honey,” she announces, and then arches an eyebrow in the woman’s direction. “Who’s this?”

“Samantha,” the woman replies smoothly, arching a brow at Betty in return.

“She wanted to say hello to Mia,” Jughead explains, his tone just a touch stilted. He gestures to Betty. “This is Betty, my - Mia’s mom.”

“I just couldn’t help but admire your daughter,” Samantha says; she has the grace to take a small set back, away from Jughead. “She’s beautiful.”

Betty sets the broccoli down in the cart and brushes a hand over Mia’s back. “Thank you.”

“Well, happy shopping!” Samantha says after a beat of awkward silence. She goes to move around them but pauses by Betty and says, more quietly, “Didn’t see a ring and I just can’t resist a man with a baby; sorry.” She flashes a quick smile and breezes by. Betty watches her go, her frown resurfacing.

“Betts,” Jughead says, and she finally turns away from Samantha’s perfectly beach-wavey hair to look at him.

“You’re popular,” she says, and she manages to keep her tone light, but she can’t quite flip her frown around.

“It was about the baby,” he says. “It’s not my fault she’s so gorgeous; that’s all your genes.”

Betty gives him a _look_. “She didn’t see a ring so she couldn’t _resist_?” she murmurs, mostly to herself. “Just because someone’s not married, it doesn’t mean they’re not - ” _Taken_ , she almost says, but doesn’t.

“Betts,” Jughead says again. There’s a little smile lurking around his mouth. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” she says, though it sounds unconvincing even to her own ears. “No, just - ” She startles herself by thinking _what a bitch_ , which is not a thought she’s ever had before, not like this, not in a context that feels grossly competitive. Even when Archie asked Nancy Woods to the seventh grade dance and not her, even when Betty cried herself to sleep that evening, she never thought _what a bitch_ ; at the dance, she complimented Nancy’s hair and meant it.

She drops her hand from Jughead’s arm and takes the list back from him. “We should finish shopping before Mia gets cranky,” she says, turning to lead the way to the next aisle.

Before she can move, however, Jughead catches her elbow and tugs her closer to him again. She opens her mouth to speak, but anything she might’ve said is silenced by his mouth on hers when he kisses her, hard, right there by the manicotti, until the tension seeps out of her body and she finds herself smiling against his lips.

 

* * *

 

Jughead stands on the subway with two enormous, reusable shopping bags nestled between his feet and another over his shoulder. He’s holding onto one of the vertical bars and is hovering in front of Betty, who’s seated on the bench seat in front of him with Mia now strapped to her chest instead. They’d bought a little more than they’d intended to at Trader Joe’s, and rather than walk the additional blocks home, Jughead had insisted that they take the subway for the short ride. He has the heavy bags, and while he knows Mia is light in her carrier, it’s also getting to be close to nap time. The last thing Betty needs is a wailing, tired baby strapped to her chest as they walk down the sidewalk, Jughead thinks; it’s best if they get home quickly.

They’re usually fairly quiet while on the train; it’s awkward to have important conversations with a bunch of strangers listening, and they already get enough looks because of their baby girl. Jughead understands _that_ part: Mia is completely, utterly adorable. He knows he’s a little biased, but she’s perfect, full stop. _He_ can’t stop smiling at her, so there’s no way he expects anyone else to be able to avoid it, either.

So when a random woman - Samantha, she’d called herself - had come up to him in the aisle of Trader Joe’s while Betty had ducked away, Jughead had honestly thought that she just wanted to coo at Mia for a few moments. It was only when she’d started touching him that he even realized that she might be flirting a little, too. Then Betty had come up, practically raising her haunches, and Jughead suddenly found himself in a situation he’s definitely never been in before: between two women, each of whom was potentially _interested_ in him.

It was confusing, to say the least, but Jughead has to admit that he was somewhat amused by Betty’s territorial hanging-on, and slightly turned on. She _wants_ him, he thinks; she wants him to be _hers._

Of course, he’s been hers since they were ten years old. Things have been so incredible between them lately, sometimes he forgets that he’s the only one who knows that.

Jughead had kissed Betty afterward, hoping to reassure her. It seemed to work, at least for the remainder of their grocery trip, but now that that they’re on the way home she seems a little sullen. After all the years, he’s very accustomed to a near-constant feeling of insecurity; he lives in that space, has grown in it, and considers a lack of reassurance and stability to almost _be_ reassuring and stabilizing. It’s chaotic and irrational now that there have been so many months of what he knows is love between himself and Betty, and he’s working on being comfortable to live in a world without those sad feelings. But right now, he thinks _this_ \- whatever it is, this odd sensation of being the one to do the reassuring - has to be a worse feeling.

When the train comes to their stop and they stand, Jughead lifts the bags into his hands again and somewhat awkwardly ushers Betty and Mia onto the platform. They climb to the street and turn south to walk the remaining block to their apartment.

“She’s getting tired,” he says finally, breaking the mostly-comfortable silence between them. Mia has begun to fuss a little, a sure sign that the excursion has been more than enough for her pre-nap.

Betty nods and kisses Mia’s head over top of her cute hat. “We’re almost home, Mia,” she soothes. “While Daddy puts the groceries away, I’ll get you to sleep, I promise.”

 _Daddy._ A stupid, broad smile crosses Jughead’s face at the word. He’ll never be over hearing it.

They reach their building and step into the elevator. As soon as the doors close, Jughead glances over at Betty and, as casually as possible, says, “About that woman today, I - Betty, I’ve been in love with you since we were kids.”

She looks up at him, her eyes a bit sharper, even with the slight confusion reflected in them. “Yeah, you said you had a crush on me in high school,” she replies slowly.

The elevator doors open on their floor, and Jughead waits for her to exit first. He drags the bags after them, and as he’s unlocking the door to their unit, he clarifies, “I might have understated that a bit.” He holds the door open for her, but she doesn’t step through.

Instead, Betty stares at him, frowning. “What are - what do you mean?”

Jughead gestures for her to enter, and finally she obliges, but crowds him in the foyer as he sets down the grocery bags. He’d wanted this to feel nonchalant, light, _obvious_ even, but suddenly now that he’s saying the words, his throat feels tight. His chest tingles. His hands feel a little numb. He’s right back there in Pop’s, watching her with Trev; right back there in the stands, watching her cheer for her boyfriend; right back there in the sandbox, wondering why the nice blonde girl always smiles more at his new redheaded friend.

So he doesn’t meet her eyes, and instead carries the grocery bags to the kitchen. Betty trails after him, Mia still strapped in her carrier. He opens the fridge, intending to start putting vegetables inside, but catches a glimpse of Betty’s wide, hard expression. She visibly swallows, ignoring a cry from Mia. “Jughead.”

“Go put her down,” he suggests gently. He’s fucking _terrible_ at reassuring her, he realizes; he’d meant to inform her that she never, ever has to worry about him and anybody else because for him there could never _be_ anybody else, but it seems that this, too, he’s bad at. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’m putting her down because she’s about to start bawling,” Betty says in an even tone, “but you are not done explaining to me what that meant, Jughead.”

He gives a small nod of affirmation, and Betty leaves the kitchen. He forces his brain to stop overworking itself and manages to put away all of the perishables and half of everything else before she returns, her hands wringing anxiously.

Jughead stops immediately upon seeing her and abandons a can of kidney beans on the countertop. He reaches his hand out and she comes to him, her palms settling on his chest. “Juggie -”

“Betty,” he cuts in, his hands coming to her waist. “I ...”

He gives a small sigh, then decides that _fuck it,_ he’s lived with these cards close to his chest for too long. Time for them to be on the table.

“I love you. A lot,” he adds. “Even more now than before, which I didn’t think was possible. What you’ve given me with Mia, whether it was the plan to start or not, is - I can’t put into words what it’s been like, what it _is_ like, to have her, and to have her with you. But here’s the thing. I know that I told you I had a thing for you in high school, that I used to be pathetic and just brood over you-”

“It’s not pathetic,” she interrupts, rubbing his chest with her palm. “It’s sweet.”

“It’s pathetic,” Jughead confirms, shaking his head at her with a small smile. “I know. That’s fine, though.” He licks his lips and squeezes her waist, trying to anchor himself in the feeling of her beneath his hands.

 _It’s okay, Jones,_ he tells himself, _she’s here with you._

“When I told you that, I think I might have made it seem a little like it was something that I dealt with for a couple years, maybe. But it … wasn’t.” Jughead watches as her eyes widen even further, and he hastily continues before she can ask questions. “Betty, I’ve been in love with you since we were kids. I don’t really know when it started, only that it always just kind of _was,_ and even though I tried to get over it for a long time, it never worked. At a certain point I stopped trying.”

There are tears in her eyes now. He lifts his thumbs to her cheeks to brush them away, and she leans her cheek into his palm.

“Before Mia was born, when we decided that we would just … do what we wanted, and then talk about it after - one of the reasons I said that was because I guess I’m kind of used to not getting … not getting you.” Jughead shakes his head quickly. “That makes it sound possessive, and I promise that I don’t mean in that way. Nobody ‘gets’ you, you’re not a - I don’t mean it that way. I’m insecure, and I know it, and I’ve spent a lot of years being in love with you with you not in love with me back, so I was scared. _Am_ scared, that maybe this thing here with us is just hormones or something on your end and that it isn’t about me. But I’m not going to sit with that insecurity anymore if even some small part of it brings that look into your eyes that I saw at Trader Joe’s today, when that woman hit on me.”

“What do -”

“Because you have to _know,_ ” he insists, “you have to know that it’s you. For me, it’s you. And it’ll only be you. Ever. Always. As long as you want me, I’m here, the end.” He drops his hands from her face, wiping his palms on his jeans, and sighs audibly. “And that’s it.”

Betty stares at him, slack-jawed, for the longest ten seconds of Jughead’s life. Then, with a quick curl of her fingers, he’s being pulled in by his collar and she’s kissing him and he’s against the countertop and she’s _everywhere,_ beneath his shirt and entwined with his belt buckle and over his back, somehow,

“I love you,” she responds thickly when she finally pulls her mouth back from his. He pants, breathless, and she says, “We could’ve had this - this could have been us for _years.”_

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, not sure if it’s a statement or a question. “I was so fucking afraid, I -”

She kisses him again, cutting him off, and presses her body flush to his. “I know,” she manages to get out between kisses, “me too.” She starts to back up, pulling him with her, and adds, “We’re not wasting any more time.”

 _That_ feels like a statement, for sure, and Jughead nods his agreement before Betty pulls him by the hand down the hallway and into their bedroom.

They pause just through the doorway, and Jughead adds, “Hang on, Betts - if you’re going to be my girlfriend, there’s one more thing.”

Betty’s eyes search his face. “What?” she breathes, her fingers still working to unzip his jeans.

The side of his mouth curls up in a smirk, and he tells her, “In the interests of full disclosure, I think I should tell you that I have a child.”

She rolls her eyes, then pushes him onto the mattress.

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A little while later, Jughead is laying in his bed with his girlfriend _(girlfriend! girlfriend! girlfriend!)_ curled against him. Betty is dozing between wakefulness and sleep, the sign of her awareness being the small smile that’s still on her face as she rests her head beside his. For a brief moment, as his hand brushes over her soft shoulder, Jughead’s fingers itch for a cigarette and he imagines a typewritten chiron moving across the ceiling: _smoking in the dark afterward_. He hasn’t smoked cigarettes since high school, and while obviously he knows the clear negative health effects should outweigh any romantic affiliation, there’s something so old-school and classic about it as a purely aesthetic concept, post-sex.

That said, the only thing he really needs now to achieve any kind of aesthetic is the stupid, contented smile on his face and the beautiful, naked woman in his arms, except for maybe their sweet, incredible little baby girl.

Jughead’s been waiting for Betty to take the lead on their first major sexual encounter since birth, having read that there was a healing period that varied per each woman. Mia is now a whopping six weeks old, but he’d had no expectations on what that timeline might be for Betty, so this had been a pleasant surprise. It had been different than before, of course - her body itself is different, but in an incredible, beautiful way, and he’s still very much enjoying the curves of motherhood. At the same time, Jughead is impressed by how different she’s _not,_ also, and when he’d commented on it with his head between her thighs, she’d smiled and credited breastfeeding before tugging him closer by his hair.

“I love you,” she sighs quietly against his shoulder, nestling against the hand that’s rubbing hers.

Jughead leans down and presses his lips to hers softly. “Me too,” he tells her.

Betty quirks a smile at him. “You love you too?”

He grins. “I’m very lovable.”

She giggles and kisses him again. “I already knew that. That’s probably where Mia -” Betty stops when, as if on cue, their baby begins to cry from the next room. She sighs and begins to roll away from Jughead, but he stops her with a hand on her waist.

“I’ll get her,” Jughead says, swinging his legs out from the covers and standing up.

As he pulls his boxers on, Betty sits up in bed. “She’s probably hungry,” she comments, “it’s about that time.”

“I’ll bring her,” he promises, then leaves the room.

He enters Mia’s nursery and smiles when he sees his daughter in her bassinet, wailing at the top of her little lungs. He picks her up, cooing nonsense at her, then does a quick diaper change before carrying her back into his and Betty’s bedroom.

Betty is somewhat clothed now; she’s wearing what looks like leggings and no shirt with her unlatched nursing bra, but she’s still nestled in bed with the covers over her lap. At the sight of them, her smile widens, and she says, “My little family!”

Jughead grins in response. “Here we are,” he agrees, transferring Mia into Betty’s arms. “Time for lunch, babygirl.”

Mia turns automatically to the side and begins to feed. Jughead sits on the edge of the bed and watches for a moment, still somewhat fascinated, before getting off and starting to slowly get dressed again. They are indeed a family, as Betty had just said; the words stir a bit of unease in his stomach, but not because of any kind of dissatisfaction with his girls. Rather, he feels oddly - sad, even, perhaps - because _his_ family, his father, has absolutely no idea what’s been going on.

“I think it’s time I told my dad about Mia,” he says suddenly, pulling his t-shirt on.

Betty looks up at him. “I think that’s a great idea,” she says softly. “If you want, we could take her to meet him. My mom would _love_ to host us in Riverdale anyway, and we could swing by Dad’s in Albany on the way so he could see her again. Make a weekend out of it.”

Jughead chews his bottom lip. He’s a bit hesitant to just show up on his dad’s doorstep with a baby, but he does think that _seeing_ her would make a significant impact. “Let me call him first,” he suggests. “Though yeah, at the least, we could visit your parents.” He’s quiet for a moment, then adds, “We’ve never been consistent, him and I, but it still feels wrong that he doesn’t know about her.”

“I understand.” Betty switches Mia to the other side and then quirks her head at Jughead. “You think anyone’s ever breastfed at the Whyte Wyrm before?”

He snorts. “I almost guarantee it.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. Now is as good a time as any, he figures; with a quick “wish me luck” to Betty, he steps out and walks toward the living room, already dialing his dad’s number.

FP picks up after four rings, just before Jughead anticipates his voicemail - if he’d even set it up to begin with - to kick in. “Yeah?”

“Dad?” Jughead asks, instantly kicking himself for how much of a little kid he sounds like in this moment. “It’s me. Jughead.”

“Jug!” FP sounds surprised; which makes sense, Jughead figures - they don’t do a lot of phone calls at this stage of their relationship. “Haven’t heard from you in awhile. What’s up?”

Jughead sinks down into an armchair and shifts it to half-face the window, so that he can stare at the brick mass of Brooklyn. “I think I might come back to Riverdale to visit in a couple weeks, if you’re around.”

“Should be. You need to stay here?”

 _Should_ being the operative word, he thinks. Aloud, Jughead says, “No, I’ll stay at Betty’s mom’s. Because - uh, well, Dad, I have something to tell you.”

“About Alice?”

“Not about Alice.” Jughead sighs. “Look, this is probably going to be a shock, and I’m sorry for not telling you before, but - Betty and I are … together.” He swallows. “She just had a baby. And the baby … it’s mine.”

There’s complete silence on the other end of the phone; for a moment, Jughead thinks that his dad has hung up on him, but after a quick peek at his screen, it’s clear that there’s still a connection.

“It’s a girl,” he continues hastily. “Her name is Amelia. Mia. She’s six weeks old. I want you to meet her, Dad, but only - only if you’re going to be around. _Really_ around. I won’t put her through the ups and downs that we had. She’s going to have a good life with stability and parents who love her and I’d like a grandfather to be a part of that, but only if - only if you can commit.”

More silence passes; it hangs in the air, heavy, until finally FP says throatily, “You have a daughter?”

Jughead swallows, blinking away the burn behind his eyes. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you - well, I suppose I can guess why.” His father’s voice sounds odd: choked, sort of, but very clear at the same time. “I didn’t know you were even _with_ Betty. You’ve been hung up on that girl for years and now you’re … and you didn’t say -”

“It’s complicated,” Jughead interrupts. “Or, it _was_ complicated. Most people don’t know. It’s not complicated anymore, though. We’re officially … us. With Mia.”

“Mia,” FP repeats. “My granddaughter. Mia.”

Hearing those words come out of his father’s mouth is suddenly and altogether overwhelming for Jughead. He feels like a huge boulder has gotten lodged in his throat, because his voice sounds strange and pinched when he replies. “She’s everything, Dad.”

“Yeah.” FP is quieter now, almost impossibly so. “I remember.”

Jughead doesn’t respond; instead, he stares at the building across the street and wills the bricks to tug apart, to crumble to the ground in a big, broken heap.

They don’t.

 

 

tbc.


	13. Chapter 13

“So,” Veronica says, setting her pristine white cup, filled with a cappuccino concocted by an unseen chef somewhere in the depths of the Blossom-Lodges’ modern kitchen, back in its equally pristine white saucer. “I assume you’ve had some time to contemplate your apology.”

Betty pauses in the midst of spooning foam off of her own cappuccino. “Apology?” she echoes, her brow creasing in confusion. Automatically, she turns to look at Jughead, as if he’ll be able to translate Veronica’s statement for her, but he just shrugs with a _here we go again_ expression on his face. Betty lets her gaze fall to Mia, who is sound asleep in Jughead’s arms, and gets lost in staring at their perfect daughter until she hears the sound of Veronica pointedly clearing her throat.

“Sorry, V,” she says, looking up again. “What are you talking about?”

“Your apology,” Veronica says again. It’s her turn to look at her partner, glancing over at Cheryl as if to check that she’s being adequately clear; Cheryl takes a quick break from trying to coax Montgomery into finishing his peas to nod. “You know,” Veronica adds. “For not listening to me, for so long. Even though, as we all now know, I was _right_.”

“Veronica,” Betty says, huffing a laugh.

“Really, it should be to us both,” Cheryl interjects. “She kept me up on more nights than I can count, complaining about the two of you.”

Veronica nods. “And _really_ , Jughead owes me an apology, too. He also never listened to me.”

“Because it wasn’t your business,” Jughead says, but there’s an amused quirk in the corner of his mouth.

Veronica frowns briefly. “Of course Betty’s happiness is my business.”

Jughead turns to Betty, and she watches something flicker through his eyes as he has some kind of internal debate before he tells her, “She once tried to convince me to speak now or forever hold my peace at your wedding.”

“Yes, well,” Veronica says quickly, “thankfully, Betty figured that one out for herself before drastic measures were required. The point is - ”

“The point is that we accept apologies in the form of bouquets, first-class plane tickets, and diamonds,” Cheryl says, leaning back in her chair as she picks up her cappuccino, and a small part of Betty’s brain registers a thrill, because Cheryl is being playful, Cheryl is being _silly_ , even if her silliness is accompanied by a somewhat threateningly arched eyebrow, and it’s amazing that they’ve come this far, two girls who are not-quite cousins and a boy whose father was unfortunately involved in greatest tragedy of one of their lives, and they have children now, children who will grow up together and play together and love each other -

But an even larger part of her mind is occupied by an image of Jughead standing up from a pew, his beanie in shaking hands, her mother’s expression nothing short of horror. It never really would’ve happened - no one would’ve said those words at Betty’s wedding, _speak now_ , and even given the opportunity, she knows now that Jughead would’ve sacrificed his happiness for hers. Still, though, the idea makes her heart skip a beat. She wonders how she would’ve reacted. She’s scared that she might have kept her hands in Trev’s and refused to veer from the path set out before her, even if she had to look at it through tears. She and Jughead had so many chances, but they came so close to missing each other for good.

It’s that thought that makes her turn to Veronica, her expression somber and her voice a little hushed when she says, “I’m sorry.”

The smile seems to melt off Veronica’s face. “Oh, B - ”

Jughead’s thigh presses against Betty’s under the table. “You don’t owe her an apology,” he says quietly.

Betty shakes her head. “I do. And I owe one to Cheryl, by proxy. And one to you, and one to myself.” She lifts her shoulders in a tiny shrug. “We could have had this for so much longer.”

“We have it now, baby,” he says, his gaze so intent on her face it’s like he’s forgotten that Cheryl and Veronica are there as well.

She nods, but can’t help adding, “I just thought - I was so sure you would’ve said something, if what Veronica kept saying was really true. But I shouldn’t have… put all that on you. I could’ve asked.”

“And if I would’ve said Veronica was being ridiculous?” he asks, prompting a soft, irritated noise from the other side of the table. “You were protecting what we had. Our friendship. I can’t fault you for that, Betts. It meant a lot to me, too.”

Betty exhales slowly. She can feel her smile trembling a little as she teases him, “You’re just cutting me slack because you’re getting laid.”

He shuffles his chair closer to hers with some difficulty, doing his best not to jostle Mia and wake her up, and then leans in to kiss her cheek. “I’m cutting you slack because I love you,” he whispers. “And because you’re cutting _me_ slack. I was stupid, too.”

She presses her forehead to his briefly, reaching up to cup his cheek in her palm. He lifts an eyebrow at her, _okay?_ , and she nods, their noses brushing: _okay_.

Veronica sighs, looking between them as Jughead leans back again and adjusts Mia in his hold. “You know, a _wonderful_ way for you to apologize would be to let me plan your wedding.”

Betty slides her a look. “No one’s engaged here.”

“Yet!” Veronica says sunnily.

“’Et!” Montgomery repeats, banging his sippy cup against the tray of his high chair. “’Et, ’et, ’et!”

Veronica beams. “He’s _very_ excited to be your ring bearer.”

Betty smiles even as she rolls her eyes. “I think we’ll wait until they’re both a little older,” she says without thinking, tilting her head toward Mia, and then feels her body go totally still when she realizes what she’s said, what she’s assumed. She glances toward Jughead cautiously, hoping she hasn’t freaked him out.

He isn’t looking at her, but at Mia, who’s wriggling around, fussing as she wakes. “I don’t know, Betts,” he says evenly. He lifts Mia to his chest, patting her back gently and kissing her cheek before he holds her out to Betty; she undoubtedly wants to be fed. He meets Betty’s eyes as he eases Mia into her arms, and adds, with such simplicity that it makes her breath catch, “I think I’m pretty fucking tired of waiting.”

 

* * *

 

A few days later, they rent a car, pack up Mia, and head to Riverdale.

Travelling with a two month old baby, it turns out, is quite something. In the past, Jughead has been able to make this trip in a quick, straight shot, the biggest delay being however long it takes to get out of the city. This time, there are two stops (one, for a diaper change; and two, when Mia is wailing, so that Betty can get into the backseat and calm their daughter). On the way home tomorrow, they’ve arranged to stop by Betty’s dad’s, and Jughead can only imagine how much extra time _that_ will take.

Even when they get to Riverdale, there are stops. First at Betty’s mom’s house, to drop off their bags, let Alice briefly fuss over the baby, and to feed Mia in the relative privacy of Alice’s home. This of course is not the fifteen-minute stop that Jughead had imagined, because Alice is nothing if not completely thorough in her mooning over her grandchild, and then there’s an offer of cookies and well, he’s nothing if not thorough with cookies, either. Jughead has to brush crumbs off his shirt, and just as Betty is teasing him about being messy, Mia spits up onto her pink onesie.

She looks at Mia in faux-horror, then at Jughead. “She’s definitely your daughter,” she teases, handing Jughead their daughter so that she can dig through the diaper bag for a spare outfit.

Jughead plants a wet kiss to Mia’s forehead. She wiggles in his arms, and he grins. “Yeah,” he agrees, “she definitely is.”

Finally, they manage to get Mia changed - the cute yellow dress seems a little more appropriate for meeting people, anyway - and into the carseat. Betty’s changed too, into a pair of leggings and a flowing top that conceals what’s left of her pregnancy weight - he couldn’t give less of a shit about it, loves her body, _always,_ but she’s been slightly self-conscious - and for a brief moment, Jughead contemplates putting on a different t-shirt.

(He’s shaken out of that quickly, but after, he does wonder just how different living with two women - after a lifetime of mostly dealing with just his father - will be.)

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Their second stop is Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe. Jughead can recall the last time that they were here - Betty was pregnant, but they weren’t _them_ yet, and afterward he’d taken her to the football field and confessed to her about his high school crush. It hadn’t been everything that he should have told her, but it _was_ the first time that he’d told her anything about the huge Betty-shaped place in his heart, and for that Jughead will always be grateful to Pop.

When they pull into the parking lot of Pop’s, Betty grabs Mia’s diaper bag while Jughead grabs Mia herself. She’s sleepy again, and if she naps through the bite to eat that they’re going to grab here, he’ll definitely be fine with that.

The bells on the door jingle as they enter, a familiar sound. He used to associate the sound of those bells with exasperation, as they were generally a signal that somebody was entering the diner, and for most of his childhood and teenage years Jughead really just wanted to avoid people altogether. Unless the bells were from Betty entering, in which case his memories are either good ones, because she was there, or slightly less so, because she was there but it was with Trev.

Today, though, the bells are because she’s entered with him and their daughter, and he doesn’t think he can be any happier.

Jughead puts a hand on Betty’s lower back to guide her into a booth. He places Mia’s carseat on the seat beside him and begins to go about the task of freeing her from the carrier. Just as he’s lifting his daughter into his arms, Pop’s voice booms toward them.

“Jughead! Betty!”

He turns with Mia in his arms and fixes a grin on his face as Pop walks up to their table. “Hey, Pop,” he says gently. “We’ve got a new customer for you.”

Pop’s face splits immediately into a wide grin. “Oh my gosh,” he says hurriedly, wiping his hands on his apron. “She’s so beautiful, you two. Congratulations. What’s her name?”

Jughead meets Betty’s gaze across the table. She gives a small nod, then turns to Pop and says, “Her name is Amelia.” There’s a brief pause, then Betty adds, “Amelia Tate Cooper-Jones.”

Pop pauses in the middle of smiling at Mia and slowly rotates toward Betty. “That’s a very pretty name,” he says, his voice quiet, with only a hint of curiosity on the upward lilt.

“It’s Tate after you,” Betty puts in softly. “We both - we both owe so much to you, for all the years of support that you gave us. And last time we were here, when we … well, it’s a really long story, but whether you knew it or not, you gave us the nudge that we needed.” She bites her lower lip into a smile.

Pop’s jaw drops wordlessly, and Jughead slowly rises to his feet. “Do you want to hold her?” he asks quietly.

Pop nods, still silent. Carefully, Mia is transferred into his arms, and all of them slide into the booth. Mia looks up at Pop curiously, all wide eyes and chubby wrists, and Pop’s tears almost drop onto her face.

“I don’t know what to say, kids,” Pop finally manages. He gives an emotional, unsteady laugh, then adds, “Do you think she’ll be more of a vanilla or strawberry kind of girl?”

“I dunno,” Jughead muses, touching his foot to Betty’s under the table and watching happily as Pop caresses Mia’s impossibly soft cheek. “We’ll have to let you know.”

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After a milkshake and a shared plate of fries, they pack up Mia and head for Sunnyside.

It’s a short distance - Pop’s sits right on the invisible border that separates the north and south sides of Riverdale, and the trailer park from the latter is not far away - but Jughead finds himself wishing all the same that the trip would take hours. He’s excited for his dad to meet Mia, but he’s also terrified at the same time; if it doesn’t go well, this’ll be another nail in the coffin of their already strained and tenuous relationship. He refuses to subject his daughter to the stress of an on-and-off presence like he’s had - he _won’t_ \- but even though he’s willing to do absolutely anything if it’s in Mia’s best interest, the idea of having to cut his father off is still a terrible one for Jughead to even contemplate. Even when FP just brings him pain, at least he’s bringing him _something,_ which is a hell of a lot more than Jughead can say for his mother or, at this point, even Jellybean.

They arrive at FP’s trailer minutes later. Jughead takes his time getting Mia out of the car, this time leaving the carseat inside. Instead, Betty carries Mia in her arms to the doorway, while the diaper bag rests across Jughead’s shoulder like the _dad_ he really is now.

Jughead steps to the door and knocks on it twice, then chews his lip as he waits to see whether his father is there.

The door opens after a couple of terrifying seconds, and reveals FP: clean-shaven, with what looks like a freshly laundered t-shirt and a nervous smile of his own. “Hi, Jug,” he says, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “Good to see you. Come on in.”

Jughead looks to the steps beside him and holds an arm out for Betty. She climbs them and then steps into the trailer, smiling a soft “hello” at FP. Jughead follows directly behind her and guides her straight to the living room, where she sits down on -

“Dad, did you get a new couch?” he asks, turning around in shock.

FP puts his hands in his pockets and nods. “Yep. It was time. Did a little cleaning, too. I painted in the bedroom.”

“You _painted?”_ Jughead echoes.

“Yeah.” FP nods over Jughead’s shoulder. “Hi, Betty. Good to see you again.”

She smiles at him. “It’s been awhile. Do you want to come meet Mia?”

FP’s eyes flick to Jughead’s, ostensibly for permission of some sort. To that, Jughead chuckles. “We didn’t bring her here for you to stare at across the room. Of course.”

FP cracks a half-grin, then walks over to the couch and gingerly sits down beside Betty. She rests Mia in her arms but angles them slightly toward FP. “Amelia,” she coos, “this is your grandpa.”

Jughead hovers nearby, watching carefully. His father’s eyes widen slightly, and he looks visibly anxious as he touches Mia’s little hand.

“She’s beautiful, Betty,” he says in a rushed exhalation, as though he’s breathless and can’t quite catch up. “She looks a lot like Jug when he was a baby, I think, but there’s a glint in her eyes that reminds me so much of Alice.”

Betty’s head tilts to the side curiously. “Really?”

FP nods. “Bit of a spunky side, maybe.”

She laughs softly. “I’ll be sure to tell my mom that.”

Jughead smiles at the exchange, then shifts his weight awkwardly and says, “You can hold her, Dad. If you want.”

FP looks up at him with what Jughead can only identify as a hopeful expression. “Yeah? Okay, I - actually, first, I have something for her.”

“Aww, you didn’t have to get her anything,” Betty chides gently as FP rises to his feet and disappears down the hallway.

“I wanted to,” he calls through the walls, reappearing moments later with a small gift bag. “It’s nothing big, but - here.” FP thrusts the bag at Jughead, who accepts it with surprise.

He goes to sit beside Betty before opening it. His father stands beside an empty armchair, watching them. Jughead slips a hand into the bag and touches something soft.

“I had old lady Fogarty make it,” FP explains in a nervous voice, his fingers curling around the worn back cushion of the chair. “She made yours, too.”

“My what?” Jughead asks, confused, but his question is answered a moment later when tissue paper falls away and in his hands is a small knit hat in a soft pink colour with point crown edges folded up at the edge.

He stares at it, a blinding numbness suddenly pounding in his head. It gives way to a hot burn near his eyes, and he doesn’t dare speak.

“You were my little prince,” his father tells him in a soft, subdued tone. “And she’s your little princess.”

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**fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for going on this little journey with us! It's been a rollercoaster of fun, and we appreciate every bit of your feedback more than you'll ever know.


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